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THE  FLYING  J  ( 
PARLIAMENT  \'( 


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THE    FLYING    PARLIAMENT 
AND    OTHER    POEMS 


The 

Flying  Parliament 

and 

Other  Poems 

By 
EDWINA   STANTON    BABCOCK 


NEW   YORK 

JAMES   T.   WHITE   &   CO. 

1918 


COPYRIGHTED     I9ie     BY 
JAMES    T.    WHITS    a    CO 


DEDICATED  TO 

CAROLINB   LEXOW   BABCOCK 

19x4 — 1918 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/flyingparliamentOObabcrich 


CONTENTS 

The  Flying  Parliament 

the  sacred  ships 12 

the  flying  parliament 13 

"GONE  west"    63 

Other  Poems 

the  happy  people 71 

from  tree  cloister 72 

from  a  window 73 

birthright  74 

TO    A    LONELY    STAR 75 

THE   OLD   ORDER   CHANGETH 75 

THE    TRAMP     78 

IN    THE    STRANGE    COUNTRY 80 

RAIN    PICTURES     8l 

War  Poems 
"we  must  make  the  world  safe  for  democracy,  1917"  .  87 

the  meaning    88 

the  marching  faith 89 


CONTENTS—  Continued 

HOME    COMING     91 

FOR    OUR    MEN 93 

WORLD   FLOWER 94 

EPOCH,     1914     95 

TO    AMERICANS     97 

PENMARCH — BRITTANY 98 

TO   AN    AMERICAN    SOLDIER   GOING   INTO   ACTION IOO 

RESURGENCE — TO    C.    L.    B IOI 

GARDEN    ADVENTURES     IOI 

CAMOUFLAGE    107 

HOME-SICK 108 

THE    INTERPRETER IO9 

KLEPHTIC Ill 

AT   THE    FEAST    OF    LIFE 1 14 

DEATH     WITHIN     DEATH 115 

AT    THE     FLOWER-SHOW Il6 

TALISMANS     Il8 

SUBLIMINAL 119 


CONTENTS—  Continued 

THE    WALLED    CITY 120 

ON    LILY    STREET,     NANTUCKET 122 

THE    "BLIND"    ROAD,    NANTUCKET 124 

THE    END    OF    THE    SEASON — NANTUCKET 125 

MOVING    MILESTONES — NANTUCKET    126 

SOURCE 127 


THE    FLYING   PARLIAMENT 


THE   SACRED   SHIPS 

Out  past  the  Highlands'  smoke  and  Autumn  gold, 
The  great  gray  ships  on  secret  orders  steam; 
Battalioned  boys  their  dawn-lit  land  behold 
Drifting  astern,  like  towers  in  a  dream; 
They  watch   the   havened  harbor  lights  that  gleam 
Speechless  farewell,  too  tender  to  be  told — 
Until  within  their  breasts  austere  and  bold, 
The  former  days  remote  and  alien  seem, 
And  they,  the  fathers  of  a  Day  supreme. 
Thus,  visioning  their  service — to  a  man — 
They  grim  in  their  stern  blitheness,  sail  to  War. 
Yea,  while  we  sleep,  in  one  nighfs  star-lit  span — 
Youth  leaves  our  shores — to  face  the  Minotaur. 


THE    FLYING    PARLIAMENT 

Scene.    Venice,  November,  1917.    The  piazza  of  San  Marco. 

A  chill  air  emphasizes  the  weather  stains  on  arcade 
and  collonade.  Now  and  then  the  pale  sunlight  glitters 
faintly  on  a  bit  of  mosaic,  but  the  lacy  fretwork  of  St. 
Marks  and  the  Palazzo  Guistizia  are  nearly  covered  by 
sandbags  and  scaffoldings.  The  statues  are  all  removed 
from  their  pedestals.  The  four  famous  bronze  horses 
are  once  more  removed;  also  the  giants  on  the  famous 
clock  tower.  The  winged  lion  of  St.  Mark  and  the  little 
St.  Theodore  and  his  crocodile  have  been  carried  to 
places  of  safety.  From  the  bronze  flagstaffs  in  the 
Piazza  of  St.  Marks  the  Italian  flags  are  flying.  From 
afar  off  there  comes  the  slow  booming  of  guns.  Sud- 
denly the  piazza  is  a  whirl  with  pigeons.  The  guns 
sound  like  huge  bass  chords;  the  pigeon  wings  beat  a 
curious  suggestion  of  delicate  pastoral  themes.  The 
canals  are  deserted  except  for  one  gondola  slowly  ap- 
proaching a  bridge.  An  American  war  correspondent 
wields  the  great  oar  unaccustomedly.  The  American 
steps  out  at  a  bridge ;  he  makes  fast  the  gondola ;  he 
walks  slowly  into  the  deserted  piazza.  Near  the  bronze 
ba^se  of  the  flagstaffs  is  a  single  child  standing  among 
the  whirling  pigeons.  The  child  has  a  small  bit  of  black 
bread  in  his  hand ;  now  and  then  he  breaks  off  a  tiny 
bit  of  the  bread  and  throws  it  to  the  birds  who  come 
eagerly  to  him. 

13 


Child  looking  at  pigeons  circling  in  the  sky  speaks  as 
though  to  them: 

Fly— Fly!     Wheref 

In  the  unlibertied  air! 

Wings  of  gray  instinct, 

All  opal  tinct, 

Pulses  of  pleasure, 

Feathery   measure — 

Wings  of  delicate  vibrant  life, 

Cutting  blue  air  with  halcyon  knife; 

Sky-strewn  garlands  of  pleasant  days, 

No  more  your  turret  and  tower  ways! 

Nowhere — nowhere 

Do  hearers  your  sweet  counsels  share! 

Nowhere — nowhere 

Is  your  place  in  the  militant  air! 

The  American  advances  slowly;  he  is  clad  in  khaki, 
and  carries  field  glasses;  his  broad  brimmed  hat  is  worn 
down  low  over  his  eyes  which,  burned  out  and  weary, 
are  fixed  on  the  Duomo  of  St.  Marks. 

As  he  notices  the  Italian  flags,  his  lips  close  firmly 
together,  and  he  looks  down  at  the  little  American  flag 
set  in  his  button-hole.  He  stares  around  the  deserted 
piazza  and  shivers.  Taking  out  his  notebook  he  sits 
down  on  the  steps  of  the  Duomo  and  commences  writing: 

(American,  writing) 
Here  in  the  Piazza 

14 


Where  the  colonnades 

Dripped  with  globules 

Of  colored  beads, 

Where  delicate  shapes 

Of  Venetian  glass 

Expanded  like  flowers 

In  cavelike  booths; 

Here  where  the  band  played  strains, 

Wild   and   rich  and   forlorn, 

Till  the  very  stars  dropped  down, 

Like  gold  tears  on  the  night; 

And  the  moon,  like  an  orbed  lyre, 

Tried  to  echo  the  strain 

Through    strings    of    fine-drawn    cloud. 

Here  where  the  musing  crowds 

Sat  in  the  coffee  stalls 

Of  Florian's  and  drank 

Tiny  glasses  of  green 

Or  golden  yellow  Chartreuse; 

In  a  sweet  dazed  waking  dream — 

Here  is  emptiness  now, 

Emptiness  like  a  curse, 

Emptiness  like  a  house 

With  the  light  and  life  all  gone; 

All  the  loving  turned  to  dread, 

The  children  statues  of  Fear, 

The  windows  closed  and  stark, 

And   the  pictures  turned  to  the  wall, 

15 


The  people  are  fled  away 
To  Padua  and  the  plains, 
Because  the  Prussian  comes. 
All  the  men  are  on  the  lagoons, 
With  Latin  passion  and  pride 
Fighting  the  Prussians  back; 
But  here  in  this  empty  place, 
Thronged  once  by  a  brilliant  world, 
Stands  a  little  Venetian  child 
Feeding  the  hungry  doves. 

Child,  moving  over  near  the  American,  curiously 
watches  him  at  his  writing.  At  last  the  little  one  sits 
soberly  down  beside  the  war  correspondent,  who  smiles 
at  him  but  goes  on  rapidly  scribbling  his  notes: 

While  up  from  the  Lido's  calm, 

Where  the  yellow  sails  once  sank 

Into  gold  dusted  sky; 

Where    the   great    green    waves   crashed    on 

The  lilac  shadowed  sands, 

Grey  tides  move  like  a  dirge. 

Young  waters  that  once  lapped 

The  dream-lanes  of  canals, 

Where   marble  faces  smiled 

In  shadows  green  as  moss, 

Now   are  wrinkled   and  old ; 

The  morning-tinted  shores 

Are  now  brittle  and  old ; 

16 


And  here,  where  on  festa  days 

The  banners  clasped  the  breeze, 

And  the  tapestries  rolled  down 

Over  the  galleries, 

And  the  air-ships,  like  great  beads, 

Buoyed  them  on  the  sun 

Floating  over  the  roofs, 

Those  days,  fanning  with  sails 

And  fairy  trails  of  boats, 

And  somnolent  dip  of  oars — 

Those  nights,  fruited  with  lights 

Spattered  with  gleam  and  gold — 

All  are  ended  and  gone, 

Blasted  before  the  guns. 

Venetian   people  are  gone, 

Fled  to  Bologna's  plains, 

Away  from  Piave's  floods 

To  Padua's  pallid  walls. 

The  decadent  boom  of  guns — 

Sullen,  brutish  guns — 

Tired,  moody  guns — 

Sick,  disillusioned  guns — 

Is  all  that  comes  to  the  ear. 

The  child,  sitting  placidly  near  the  war  correspondent, 
keeps  on  throwing  the  tiny  crumbs  of  bread  to  the  pig- 
eons; the  American  looks  at  him  absently,  and  then  bends 
again  to  his  writing: 

17 


Glutted  are  all  the  guns, 

Glutted  with  fiendish  drink 

Of  hot  young  human  blood; 

Brutal  ennuyeux!     Fat 

With  soft  delicious  food 

Brought  them  from  every  land. 

Now  the  very  guns  are  shamed ; 

The  hideous  tanks  are  shamed; 

The  fields  and  mountains  are  shamed ; 

The  Zeppelins  are  shamed; 

The  submarines  are  shamed; 

Men's  faces  are  set  and  stern 

With  an  solemn  awful  shame. 

The  world  turns  from  its  trough, 

And  knows  its  swinishness; 

The  guns  are  glutted  now, 

Yet,  if  the  flood  be  passed 

On  Piave's  fertile  plains, 

Venice  shall  come  to  their  maw; 

All  the  delicate  high-bred  bones 

Of  the  Bride  of  the  Seas  will  come 

To  be  crunched  by  the  wild-boar  guns. 

Venice  the  fragile,  grey 

Queen  of  the  lamped  lagoons — 

Of  slender  lily  tower — 

Of  rich  dustcovered  bronze — 

Of  history-crusted  stone — 

Of  luminous  Christs  and  saints 


18 


And  Gods  of  golden  lands — 

Of  dreaming  palace  and  port — 

Of  winged  winy  glass 

And  vine-hung  water-gate — 

Venice  must  go  to  the  guns. 

The  war  correspondent  closes  his  book;  getting 
wearily  to  his  feet  he  walks  around  the  corner  of  the 
Palazzo  Giutsizia  and  gazes  out  on  the  Grand  Canal 
toward  the  lagoons.  He  turns  and  looks  sorrowfully 
toward  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  to  the  restored  Campanile 
and  the  Procurate  Nuova.  The  grey  pigeons  whirl 
around  him;  the  child  follows  him. 

Child  looking  earnestly  at  the  American,  points  to  the 
doves : 

(Child,  singing:) 

There  go  the  doves,  the  flowers  of  the  water — 

Leaves  of  the  steeples  and  seed  of  the  sea; 

They  knovj  never  our  commerce  nor  barter, 

Yet  the  doves  are  no  longer  free. 

All  of  their  flight  among  starry  steeples 

Fanning  of  wings  over  militant  peoples, 

Brings  us  no  harmony. 

Yet  the  work  of  the  pigeons  is  not  done, 

For  the  work  of  wings  is  never  done. 

American  looking  down  at  the  child  wonderingly: 
The  work  of  wings  is  never  done. 
That,  me-thinks,  is  a  wise  small  song. 
Who  gave  it  you  to  sing? 
19 


The  child  stands  gazing  up  at  the  American;  he  keeps 
mysterious  dark  eyes  fixed  upon  him  answering  solemnly: 

The  Woodcarver, — he   sings 
A  song  of  many  lines 
And  all  about  the  doves. 
"Pigeons,"  he  sings,  "are  wise 
They  know  their  way  so  well, 
For  they  mark  it  out  by  stars 
And  spiral  paths  of  air; 
They  know  their  way  so  well, 
And  their  way  is  always  home 
To  quietness  and  peace — 

The   child,   keeping  his  eyes   gravely  fastened   on   the 
war  correspondent,  chants  with  a  wierd  insistence: 

The   Woodcarver,  he  knows 

The  meaning  of  everything ; 

What  makes  the  flowers  grow, 

What  makes  the  bright  stars  fall, 

What  makes  the  echoes  stay 

After  the  priests'  intoning, 

And  boom  around  the  walls 

Of  our  cathedral  there. 

He  says  to  keep  on  watching 

The  doves  with  soaring  wings, 

The  peaceful,  happy  doves, 

For  they  have  a  message  for  men — 

Feverish,  stupid  men 

20 


Who  are  caught  in  a  tangling  net 
Of  their  own  imaginings. 

The  American  looks  puzzled,  he  puts  his  hand  on  the 
child's  head  and  searches  the  large  mournful  eyes;  he 
mutters  something  under  his  breath,  and  shakes  his  head 
sadly. 

American  caressing  the  child's  hair: 

Your  city  is  lonely,  Child. 

Are  you  the  only  thing 

That  lives — comes  out  to  the  sun? 

Do  the  Venetians  hide 

In  cellars  and  in  tombs — 

They  who  were  made  of  sun? 

The  palaces  are  closed, 

The  gondolas  are  gone, 

But  your  people — all  the  play 

Of  their  merry  liquid  eyes, 

The  white  of  their  perfect  teeth, 

The  olive  glow  of  their  skins, 

And  their  saucy  ragged  ways; 

The  dark  faced  coral  women, 

The   laughing   lacemakers, 

The  choruses  clamoring 

Under  the   bobbing   lanterns 

At  night  on  the  canals — 

Are  they   sleeping  a   happy   sleep? 

A  long  siesta-hour? 

21 


(Ah!  that  seista-hour, 
It  has  grown  very  long 
For  many  Italian  youths.) 
Where  have  the  people  gone? 

The  child,  slipping  from  under  the  war  correspondent's 
hand,  looks  away  from  him  up  to  the  pigeons  that  stream 
in  circles  around  them,  saying  simply: 

There  is  no  one  left  here  now 
But  the  Woodcarver  and  me. 
The  Woodcarver  makes  saints 
And  angels  young  and  sweet; 
They  poise  all  over  his  shop, 
They  smile   at  us  from  the  walls, 
We  sit  with  the  angels  there 
And  eat  the  bitter  bread 
The  Woodcarver  has  saved ; 
Though  the  guns  go  snarling  on, 
We  are  not  much  afraid; 
We  stay  to  guard  the  doves. 
The  Woodcarver  has  said 
They  watch  over  Venice, 
So  we  watch  over  them. 

American  to  himself: 

A  child   and   an   old   Italian 
Who  carves  his  dreams  in  wood 
And  "is  not  much  afraid," 

22 


All  that  is  left  in  Venice, 

To  stay  and  guard  the  doves. 

The  child   regarding  the  war  correspondent  curiously: 

Stranger,  why  do  you  come? 

Venice  is  ugly  now; 

The  strangers  come  no  more — 

Only  the  officers  come 

With  charts  and  clanging  boots; 

Their  talk  is  swift  and  stern, 

Their  eyes  are  burned  like  yours, 

And  no-one  ever  smiles. 

Signori   used   to  come; 

My  father  rowed   them   around ; 

They  laughed  and  sang  and  threw 

Money  in  the  canal, 

As  the  Doges  once  threw  rings. 

The  kind  merry  strangers! 

They  loved  the   bobbing  lanterns, 

The  songs  on  the  water-ways, 

And  the  black  gondolas  swaying.  .  .  . 

They  were  Americans 

And  English;  yes,  and  French — 

But  always  Americans, 

Always  feeding  the  doves, 

Always  caressing  the  doves, 

Always  protecting  the  doves  1 

23 


War  correspondent  sombrely: 

Yes — we  used  to  feed  the  doves; 
Now  we  are  feeding  guns. 

The  child,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  birds,  breaks  again 
into  song: 

All  on  the  sunset  evening, 

In  the  cortile's  peace, 

The  soft  grey  doves  came  streaming 

In  ecstasied  release; 

Doves  on  my  mother's  head 

As  she  walked  abroad  with  her  laces, 

Doves  near  the  baby's  bed, 

Doves  in  the  window  places, 

Doves  fanning  the  cornices  there, 

Doves  flooding,  rippling  the  square, 

Cooing  and  preening  and  circling  where 

The  fountain  sprayed  on  its  Graces — 

Purple  breasted  graylings  that  fly 

Into  the  blue  tranquillity. 

Now  it  seems  they  have  no  sky. 

Bombs  and  smoke  and  horrors  hover  .  .  . 

The  day  of  wings  and  soaring  is  over. 

The    American,    half    smiling    at   the    child's    fantastic 
quality — half  angry  at  his  pathos: 

Why!     Look  you,  the  peace  of  a  dove 
Were  a  witless,  silly  thing! 

24 


Your  doves  there   have  their  quarrels. 
Notice   that   down-charged    wing! 
Hear  that  fretting  and  quarreling  cooing 
Trouble   among  the   pigeons  brewing! 

The  war  correspondent  laughs  at  his  own  impatience, 
then  takes  the  child's  hand,  stroking  it  tenderly  and 
saying : 

Now  the  peace  of  a  dove 

Is  sent  into  the  world 

On  stronger  enduring  wings — 

The  peace  of  a  mighty  world, 

Rises  on  sturdier  wings. 

The  doves  must  rest  awhile; 

The  sky  is  filling  now 

With  wings  of  a   mightier   make. 

What  of  the  flying  planes, 

The  noble  charging  planes, 

The  squadrons  of  flying  planes, 

Sweeping  the  fields  of  sky, 

Hovering  over  the   earth? 

That  is  the  new  Parliament. 

The  winged  Parliament, 

The  true  Parliament, 

Which  comes  to  bring  us  peace. 

Watch  in  the  vault  of  heaven 

Where  soaring  birdmen  fly — 

On  a  splendid  errantry, 

The  Parliament  of  Peace! 

25 


The  child  smiles  doubtfully;  but  the  tenderness  in  the 
war  correspondent's  voice  gains  his  confidence;  he  slips 
his  hand  into  the  stranger's,  saying  almost  gayly: 

You  talk  like  the  Woodcarver, 

A  wonderful  talk  of  wings. 

Oh!   come   and   see  the  Woodcarver, 

And  hear  his  wonderful  things, 

The  way  he  reads  the  message 

This  dreadful  war-time  brings. 

The  two  cross  the  deserted  piazza  toward  the  calles 
where  there  are  many  little  shops  and  booths  now  all 
boarded  up;  one,  however,  remains  open.  It  is  a  small, 
dark,  dingy  cave,  with  small  wooden  angels,  beautifully 
carved,  festooned  over  the  doorway.  As  one  peers  into 
the  dimness  of  the  interior,  one  has  the  sense  of  the 
fluttering  of  delicate  carved  wings.  The  Woodcarver 
comes  to  the  door;  he  has  in  one  hand  his  chisel,  in  the 
other  a  shapeless  block  of  olive  wood.  The  Woodcarver 
is  old  and  bowed,  but  as  he  lifts  his  cavernous,  dark 
eyes  he  smiles,  and  his  whole  face  is  irradiated  with  a 
look  of  the  genius  of  simplicity. 

Woodcarver  to  the  war  correspondent: 

Bon  Giorno.    Ah,  Signore! 
Wecome  forestiere! 
Strangers  are  good  to  see. 
It  is  like  those  other  days, 

26 


When  they  drifted  over  the  square 
Like  scattered,  unstrung  beads, 
Or  corn  flung  to  the  doves — 
Or  stood  in  the  twilight  churches, 
Staring  through  the  incense, 
Hearing  the  organ  roll, 
And  priests  voice  imploring 
The  Virgin's  intercession. 

American,  placing  his  hand  on  the  old  man's  arm: 

'Tis  good  to  find  someone  here, 
Only  officials  greet  me 
Along  the   shivering  streets. 
Where  are  the  people  of  Venice? 
The  lazy  and  happy  and  motley? 
The  vendors  and  hawkers  and  idlers? 
The  shop  keepers  and  glass  blowers? 
The  courtly  bankers  and  merchants? 
Ah!  it  is  lonely  in  Venice. 

Woodcarver,  his  cracked  voice  faltering: 

All  fled  to  ancient  Padua, 
To  the  Good  St.  Anthony. 
And  we — we  only  stay 
To  watch  the  doves — and  pray. 

American,  looking  wistfully  about  him: 
27 


And  when  the  doves  fly  off — 
Rather  than  meet  Teutons, 
In  their  compelling  drive? 

Woodcarver  fiercely: 

The  doves  will  never  leave ; 
St.  Mark  has  willed  it  so. 
'Tis  they  who  must  not  leave; 
If  they  leave  Venice  will  fall. 
'Tis  for  that  I  stay  behind, 
I  and  the  little  child, 
To  feed  and  sooth  the  doves. 
And  you — how  come  you  here? 
You  must  have  been  in  the  field — 

Glancing  up  eagerly  at  the  war  corrspondent: 

Tell  us — how  fare  our  armies? 

American  solemnly  and  reluctantly: 

Cadorna  has   retreated 
Before  the  Teutonic  drive. 
They  have  unloosed  the  Piave; 
The  Germans  cannot  cross, 
But  the  sacrifice  was  dear. 
They  have  unloosed  the  Piave 
To  keep  the  Prussian  back. 
Cadorna  has  been  routed ; 
Italians  have   retreated. 

28 


The  Woodcarver  stand  there,  looks  at  the  war  cor- 
respondent for  a  dazed  moment,  then  jumps  suddenly  at 
him  snarling  into  his  very  face: 

Retreat — that  is  a   lie! 

The  old  man  looks  wildly  about  him,  grasping  at  the 
American's  shoulder,  and  slightly  shaking  him,  sobbing 
querelously: 

What  a  silly  childish  tale 

To  tell   a   Venetian  ear! 

The  Colleoni  armed, 

Astride  his  savage  horse 

In  the  Campello  there — 

A  Mercenary,  yet, 

Filled   with   Italian    pride, 

Would  fling  you  back  on  your  words — 

Your  coward,  lying  words. 

For  Italy,  retreat? 

For  Latin  blood — retreat? 

Was  any  retreat  for  France? 

For  Belgium  any  retreat? 

Another  stand  perhaps, 

Another  flash  of  the  eyes, 

Another  gritting  of  teeth, 

Another  steeling  of  heart, 

Another  bracing  of  flesh, 

Another  surge  of  the  blood, 

Another  smell  of  the  fray, 


Then  hell  ft)  the  weltering  hog 

That  plunges  forth  on  our  land, 

Gnashing  his  filthy  tusks! 

Gas  and  fire  and  cold, 

Water  and  steel  and  smoke, 

Roaring  fires  of  hell, 

Vermin,  disease  and  wounds 

Against  them — Latin  blood! 

Oh!  that  I  had  wells  of  it, 

I,  a  bloodless  man, 

Faltering — old,   and  weak, 

But  I  mind  me  how  once  it  burned — 

Fire,  blazing  and  quick — 

Floods,  scarlet  and  hot — 

Flowers,  passionate  sweet — 

Spirit,  dauntless  and  bold — 

Instinct,  sure  and  keen — 

Supremest  Latin   blood! 

The  old  man  paused,  breathless  and  trembling;  his 
hand  drops  weakly  from  the  war  correspondent's  shoul- 
der; he  draws  himself  up,  saying  with  gentle  dignity: 

I   lose  my  manners,  Sir; 
But  you  will  see  the  truth. 
Our  life  lies  in  the  folds 
Of  the  sweeping  allied  Hags. 
We  are  made  of  Latin  blood, 
Blood  on  whose  rising  tide 

30 


Rides  the  ark  of  ideals, 
Instincts  of  Liberty — 
Freedom's  flowering  stars. 
Yea — I  have  Latin  blood; 
For  me  there  is  no   retreat. 

The  American,  silent  and  touched,  looks  quietly  at  him; 
there  is  sympathy  and  understanding  in  his  face,  yet  he 
remains  coolly  reflective.  The  old  Woodcarver  staggers 
to  his  stool,  and  begins  fiercely  cutting  at  the  shapeless 
block  of  wood.  All  about  the  small  cavelike  shop  the 
sun  strikes  the  smooth  glistening  bodies  of  wooden  angels, 
the  golden  brown  nakedness  of  little  cherubs. 

The  American  also  sitting  down  rolls  and  lights  a 
cigarette,  the  child  collecting  shavings  and  bits  of  wood 
from  the  floor,  sits  in  the  doorway  sorting  them  and 
arranging  them  in  patterns. 

The  American  quietly  inhaling  his  cigarette: 

Your  city  is  very  drear. 

The  houses  closed   and   blind ; 

The  opal   waters  grown   dun 

With  the  muddied  silt  that  comes 

From  the  Piave's  plains. 

You  carve  while  the  cannon  booms; 

Under  your  knife   there   grows 

A  figure,   supple-soft, 

Springing  from  uncouth  wood, 

And  you  give  it  branching  wings, 

31 


And  fashion  its  gentle  face 

As  though  there  were  angels  still.  .  .  . 

You  go  on  making  angels. 

Do  the  angels  know,  think  you, 

Of  all  the  passion  and  hate, 

And  waste   and  cursing  and  lies, 

And  pride  and  fierce  world-strife, 

Back  of  the  making  of  wars? 

These  angels,  do  they  preen 

Their  wings  over  it  all, 

And  smile  upon  us  men? 

The  old  Woodcarver  for  a  moment  drops  his  head ; 
he  passes  his  hand  across  anguished  eyes;  then  he  points 
to  the  child  sitting  in  the  doorstep,  and  puts  his  finger 
on  his  lip. 

Woodcarver,  fiercely: 

Hush!     It  is  to  calm 

His  timid,  childish  thought. 

The  poor  Bambino  believes 

These  angels  will  keep  him  safe. 

It  is  to  keep  serene 

The  thoughts  'neath  his  innocent  curls, 

That  I  go  on  carving  angels. 

American,  bitterly: 

Yes — only  I  have   been 
Down  in  Servia, 

32 


On  Armenian  plains. 
In  blasted  fields  of  France, 
In  England's  wooded  ways. 
Seeing  many  little  forms, 
The  angels  forgot  to  save. 

The  Woodcarver  stops  carving;  he  drops  his  head  into 
his  hand ;  the  American  bites  his  lips,  and  curses  himself. 
With  sombre  eyes  he  stares  at  the  floor.  Suddenly  he 
notices  a  bit  of  wood  lying  in  the  shavings  at  his  feet. 
It  is  a  half-carved  cross.  The  war  correspondent,  pick- 
ing it  up  holds  it  loosely  in  his  hand,  ruminating.  At  last 
he  puts  it  very  gently  on  the  table  near  the  Woodcarver's 
listless  arm,  and  turns  to  the  door,  staring  out  to  the 
grey  vistas  of  the  empty  calles.  As  he  smokes  in  silence 
the  far-off  guns  boom  steadily,  and  the  whirl  of  grey 
pigeons  comes  once  more  past  the  little  shop  into  the 
piazza. 

The  child,  looking  up  at  them,  chants  dreamily: 

Laws  of  humanity  hold  them 

Safe  for  the  sunlit  feeding, 

Protected  always,  and  heeding 

Laws  of  the  place  that  enrolled  them; 

Spiral  their  flights,  midst  the  steeples 

Pinnacles  and  Campanile; 

Silver  fanfare  of  wings, 

Soothing  the  thoughts  of  the  peoples. 

They  spell  Humanity,  Love, 

33 


Tenderness,  Peace — But  the  air 

Is  rent  with  wild  thunder — Despair  .  .  . 

Where  is  the  end  of  itf     Where? 

The  Woodcarver,  lifting  his  face  from  his  hands,  looks 
anxiously  at  the  child ;  he  passes  his  rough  hand  swiftly 
over  his  eyes  and  smiles.  Rising  he  pats  the  little 
shoulder  of  the  child  sitting  in  the  doorway,  saying 
laughingly: 

Why  their's  is  a  small  Parliament. 

Peace  to  their  soaring  counsels! 

Weaving  strange  laws, 

Making  a  Cause 

For  the  new  born  nations. 

Note  how  they  fly, 

Tieing  the  sky, 

Looping  the  heavens, 

Wreathing  the  square, 

Binding  blue  air 

Into  golden-garlanded  sheaves! 

There  are  the  glad  manoeuvres, 

The  shiftings  and  the  shaping, 

The  mist  and  the  cloud-escaping. 

Higher  they  fly  and  higher, 

Looping  their  winged  desire, 

While  we  stand  down  here  gaping. 

The  Woodcarver  stands  by  the  child,  tapping  his  shoul- 
34 


der   gently,    and    with    the   other   hand    pointing   out   the 
difference  in   pigeon   flight. 

Woodcarver  explaining  whimsically: 

There  are  the  Ones,  the  Twos  and  the  Threes, 
The   ablest,  sagest  counsellors,  these.  .  .  . 
The  Threes  soar  higher  than  most, 
The  Twos  have   a  most  responsible   post, 
And  the  Ones — Oh!  the  separate  lonely  Ones — 
Dreamers  and  Hopers  and  Prayers,  the  Ones! 
Stretching  their  wings  over  the  world, 
Wavering  over  Humanity,  hurled 
Man  against  man,  gun  against  gun, 
Waiting  until  the  madness  be  done.  .  .  . 
Further  and  Further  away  from  dust, 
Higher  and  Higher  and  Higher  and  Higher, 
Every  separate,   keen-eyed   flier, 
Their's  is  the  flight  of  trust! 

The  Woodcarver  turns  shamefacedly  back  to  the 
American,  who  smiles  understanding  his  little  diversion. 

American — You  speak  quaintly,  in  childish  parlance; 
but  I  like  the  fancy.  What  was  your  drollery  about  those 
who  fly  singly? 

The  Woodcarver,  his  dark  eyes  lighting  with  imagina- 
tion, stands  before  the  stranger  arms  akimbo,  explaining, — 

Woodcarver  shyly: 

Why !     Look  you !     I  am  a  man 
Without  kith  nor  kin ; 

35 


No  wife,  nor  any  child 
But  this  adopted  one, 
Whose  parents  fled  away, 
And  left  him  homeless  here. 
And  it  seems  to  me  that  I  dwell 
Closer  to  mine  own  heart, 
Where  many  counsels  come, 
Than  if  a  woman  plunged 
Her  fingers  in  my  brain, 
And  mixed  my  reason  up. 

The  war  correspondent  laughs  heartily  at  this,  but  the 
Woodcarver  is  quite  serious.  The  old  man  stands  slightly 
bent  in  the  centre  of  the  little  place,  regarding  the 
stranger  intently,  and  says  slowly  and  gravely: 

The  lonely  people  know 
Much  that  is  shut  away 
From  those  that  go  in  crowds, 
Companioned    all   the   time. 
And  look  you — when  the  mass 
Of  human  beings  act, 
'Tis  on  the  thought  of   those 
Who  sit  high  up,  alone, 
Studying  the  Stars; 
Or  sit  low  down,  alone, 
Studying  the  Sands; 
Or  middle  way,  alone 
Studying  the   Times. 

36 


The  American,  drawing  on  the  last  bit  of  his  cigarette, 
looks  through  the  light  cloud  of  smoke,  and  nods  smiling. 
The  Woodcarver: 

And  the  pigeons  all  alone, 
Circling  the  dreamy  domes 
Of  the  Salute,  there.  .  .  . 
Why!  look  you!     They  fly  so  high, 
That  earth-eyes  cannot  see; 
They  lose  all  sight  of  lands; 
They  feel  the  boundless  air; — 
Air  of  the  universe; 
And  the  little  plans  of  men, 
And  the  little  lands  of  men, 
Like  stupid  little  maps, 
Like  little  colored  charts, 
Spread  out  under  their  wings 
So  little  and  so  brief.  .  .  . 
Each  nation  for  itself, 
Each  mortal  for  himself, 
All  working  different  ways, 
Striving  against  each  other, 
Pulling  away  from  each  other, 
Until  some  great  Snarl  comes, 
And  all  are  choked  to  death 
By  the  tangle  in  their  hands, 
And  the  tangle  in  their  minds. 

The  birds  feel  boundless  air — 

37 


Air  of  the  Universe, 

Air  of  unbounded  Life, 

Freedom  and  liberty; 

They  see  the  first  faint  dawn 

Of  a  Boundless  Peoples'  soul, 

Freed  for  a  mighty  world — 

World-Race,   World-Life,   World-God. 

And  on  the  sun-pathed  clouds, 

That  toss  like  high  white  seas, 

The  dauntless  birds  fly  out, 

Out  to  a  rimless  Space, 

Out  to  the  path  of  Worlds, 

And  the  solemn  ways  of  stars, 

Where  they  glimpse  God  himself; 

And  like  a  precious  message, 

Heaven-indicated  sign 

Under  their  small  sweet  wings, 

They  hold  our  dream  for  us. 

Then  we  take  to  the  air.  .  .  . 
Battalioned  aeroplanes, 
Squadrons  of  flying  men, 
Winged  holy  priests, 
Winged  lawyers  and  doctors, 
Winged  men  and  women, 
Flying  up  from  the  earth 
Into  pure  unmeasured  air, 
Where  not  a  house  can  pry 

38 


With  narrow  stupid  eyet, 
And  cramping  stifling  roof; 
Where  not  a  printed   word 
Sprays  poison  of  old  thought 
Over  the  sky-cleansed  Mind. 
Where  the  clean  squadrons  fly, 
Like  soaring  splendid  birds, 
Comes  knowledge  and  buoyancy. 
There  is  the  liberty, 
The  freedom   and  the   power, 
Prescience  and  omniscience, 
The  Vision  and  the  gift 
And   the   prophecy  of  birds. 

The    American,    tossing    away    the    stub    of    cigarette, 
reflectively  surveys  the  speaker. 
American : 

Strange  how  he  talks, 

This  old  Venetian  man, 

This  Carver  of  Wood-angels, 

Seeing  the  glorious  planes 

Charging  over  the  world! 

A  child-like,  passionate  theme. 

Strange  how  the  Carver  talks! — 

So  talked  the  flying  men, 

Victor  Chapman  himself, 

Dark  as  a  gypsy  prince, 

With  mind  so  just  and  stern, 


Exact  and  science-full; 

Chapman,  adventurer, 

Into  the  enemy  lines, 

Gallant  plane-fighter, 

Bronze  plume-spreader, 

Wild  wing-worker — 

Once  said  a  thing  like  that. 

Pegoud,  though  such  a  man 

Through  all  his  fighting  fame, 

And  such  a  soldier,  too, 

With  duty  in  his  eyes, 

France  alight  in  his  face, 

His  body  like  a  tool, 

The  spirit  used  and  kept 

Light  and  sharp  as  steel 

To  be  used  for  the  piercing  of  air, 

Like  lance  darting  at  fate — 

In  one  of  his  laughing  moods 

Pegoud  said  things  like  that.  .  .  . 

Like  eagles  in  their  hoods, 

Poised  on  their  swooping  planes, 

The  aviators  know 

Things  not  far  off  from  that. 

The  solemn  flying  men, 

The  spear-eyed  avions, 

Whose  radiant,  soaring  wings 

Gild  the  blue  summer  air, 

Who  take  the  surf  of  clouds, 

40 


And  thread  the  net  of  stars, 

Emerging  into  Space, 

Keen  for  new  reckonings — 

New   delicate  balancings, 

Keen  for  new  sciences 

And  new  far  beckonings. 

They  break  all  barriers, 

Sweep  all  boundaries, 

Surmount   all   mountains, 

And  soaring  over  seas 

That  have  for  countless  years 

Ensnared  the  minds  of  men 

To  barter  and  piracy — 

They  give  the  new  air-path 

To  Peace  and  the  interchange 

Of  mutual  benefits. 

Chapman,  Pegoud,  Gunymener — 

They  all  said  things  like  that, 

They  were  too  busy  killing, 

To  make  the  thing  come  true; 

(And  others  were  busy  killing 

Chapman   and   Pegoud,) 

So  their  soarings  ended  soon, 

They  folded  their  wings  and  slept.  .  , 

But  from  their  Grand  Parliament, 

Their  high  and  scatheless  Parliament, 

Their  steep-ascending  Parliament, 

Senate  of  silver  wings, 

41 


Pageant  of  balanced  Thought, 
Aerial  conference, 
Congress  of  flying  men, 
And  forward  flying  minds — 
Come  many,  many  thoughts 
And  many  many  dreams 
And  thrilling  glorious  hopes.  .  .  . 
Thus,  all  that  battle  now, 
All  that  struggle  now, 
And  all  that  are  dying  now, 
All  that  are  starving  now, 
Do  so  smiling  and  strong, 
Do  so  happy  and  sure, 
Knowing  that  this  age  stands 
On   supremest  level  of  all — 
Highest  peak  of  man's  mind, 
That  dares  his  nature  down, 
Fastens  his  blood  in  leash, 
Refines  his  passion,  until 
It  calms  under  his  hand, 
And  goes  to  war  with  War. 

There  is  a  sudden  tremendous  sound  of  guns.  The 
child  flings  himself  on  the  floor  in  fear;  he  crosses  him- 
self and  lies  there  looking  pitifully  up  to  the  walls  where 
the  wooden  angels  poise.  The  Woodcarver  stops  his 
work,  and  regards  the  child  with  a  drawn  white  face. 

Woodcarver,  shuddering: 

42 


Christos! — A  bitter  sea, 
That  booming  sea  of  guns. 
Yet  men  dare  to  swim  through 
The  Surf  of  mittrailleuse, 
The  solemn  tides  of  blood, 
The  still,  white  foam  of  fear, 
The  cold  blank  sands  of  death.  . 
Yea,  men  dive  into  it, 
Men  swim  into  it, 
Forging  beyond  its  depths 
To  Something  seen  ahead, 
Until  their  feet  touch  shore. 
Oh!  that  the  shore  they  touch 
Would  be  the  coasts  of  Peace! 

American  bitterly: 

Still  the  guns  boom  and  boom 
Over  the  minds  of  men, 
Drowning  the  wills  of  men, 
The  thinking  powers  of  men. 
So  they  boomed  in  the  days 
When  the  Fallieri  fought, 
When  Colleoni  took 
The  desperate  cities'  pay, 
When  the  Hohenstauffen  clutched 
Italy's  throbbing  heart, 
When  wily  Metternich 
Closed  up  the  mouths  of  men 

43 


And  universities. 

The  black  glutted  guns 

Boomed  for  Garibaldi, 

And  for  Gambetta's  cause. 

For  that  Napoleon, 

Who  dickered  in  big  wars — 

With  the  great  solemn  head 

And  little  pompous  frame 

And  cold  and  martial  eye 

And  strange   abnormal  dream. 

The  whole  world  loathed  the  sound 

Of  the  sea  of  Mittrailleuse, 

The   roaring  cannon-waves. 

Yet  on  the  swimmers  came, 

And   dove  through   the  frightful   Surf, 

Until  whole  millions  lay 

Like  dead  fish  in  that  sea, 

That  broke  in  barren  waves 

Upon   posterity. 

So  shall  the  millions  die 

In  this  chartless  blasting  Sea, 

Till  someone  finds  its  Source — 

The  Power  in  Berlin, 

And  binds  his  pilfering  hands, 

And  heals  his  crazy  brain, 

And  ends  his  Mania.  .  .  . 

Till  someone  leads  the  world 

44 


In  a  new  solemn  Vow 
And  endless  chanting  hymn, 
A  vow  such  as  this — 


A  vow  that  every  race 

And  every  blood  shall  sign 

And  seal  with  the  memory 

Of  children  who  have  died, 

Of  torment  and  of  fright; 

Of  Women  who  have  died, 

Bearing  the  children  of  rape; 

Of  Men  who  gave  their  lives, 

Fighting  the  filthy  wars, 

Of  commerce  and  of  greed ; 

Under  so  high  a  word, 

So  clean  and  pure  a  word 

As  Patriotic  faith! 

A  vow  that  shall  be  sealed 

By  the  whole  world,  rising 

Requiring  this  one  Thing, 

Saying — "And  with  Him  go 

The  marshalled  powers  of  killing, 

With  him  go  out  the  Guns, 

With  us  come  in  the  Wings; 

Bearing  us  on  our  Thought 

The  kingdoms  of  our  Mind 

And  wisdoms  of  our  Soul! 


45 


As  the  American  finished,  the  Woodcarver  looks 
shrewdly  up  from  his  work: 

Is  that  how  America  talks? 

How  is  it  in  your  land? 

Your  people  bright  and  gay 

And  full  of  sprightliness. 

The  keenness  of  their  face, 

The  quickness  of  their  mind, 

And  their  slowness  to  all  passion.  .  .  . 

Their  big  ambitions,   and 

Their  proud   impulsiveness.  .  .  . 

America,  fine  and  free, 

What  does  she  think  of  guns 

And  working  out  a  thought 

With  a  massed   artillery? 

The  American,  lighting  another  cigarette  ruminatingly 
regards  it,  and  the  old  Italian  smiling  shakes  his  head 
and  poises  a  half  shaped  figure  of  Christ  in  his  hand, 
saying : 

Nay,  Nay!     She  does  not  know 
Your  land  of  tapering  towers 
And  groves  of  shining  lights, 
The  women  light  of  foot, 
Men  white-haired  but  young-faced. 
Your  land  knows  not  the  guns, 
Your  land  sends  ships  and  men 
Fuel,  clothes,  machines 

46 


And  gold,  and  curing 

Of  medicines,  and  stuffs; 

Every  device  of  strength, 

All  scientic  ways, 

To  heal  and  mend   and  save. 

Yet  your  land  does  not  know 

The  devastating  hell 

Of  war,  and  war  for  War — 

The  hells  that  took  the  bloom 

From  off  the   women's  faces, 

And  blasted  children's  minds 

In  every  other  land. 

Your  country  does  not  know 

Pray  heaven  she  shall  not  know! 

With  a  groan,  the  Woodcarver  once  more  takes  up 
the  Christ,  he  runs  his  skilful  sensitive  fingers  and  supple 
wrist  along  the  thin  side  of  the  young  crucified  figure. 
The  American  lost  in  thought  staring  at  him.  At  last 
the  latter  as  if  speaking  to  himself  thinks  aloud,  says 
softly: 

"Our  land  sends  ship  and  men, 
The  youth  of  the  country's  loins, 
The  precious  toll  of  her  towns, 
The  noble  gift  of  her  hills; 
Men  who  were  born  to  peace, 
Who  curse  vile  trickeries 
Of  hateful  modern  war; 

47 


Who  trusted  with   smiling  face, 

A  certain  honesty, 

And  could  not  fathom  hate, 

And  could  not  relish  greed. 

Ship  after  ship  has  sailed 

To  carry  them  to  their  graves, 

The  smiling  sacrifice 

Of  this  despairing  age." 

The  Woodcarver  looks  up,  in  a  kind  of  awe,  as  the 
American  relates: 

They  sail  out  on  the  night, 

The  young  unhardened  boys, 

Whispering  goodbye 

To  headlands  and  to  Home, 

To  sweetheart  and  to  wife, 

With  lips  of  passionate  youth — 

Set  to  a  priestly  task 

Of  waging  war  on   War. 

On   stranger  foreign  soil 

They  laugh  in  sordid  tents, 

Go  down  into  the  trench, 

Or  Sail  the  gallant  air, 

Making  their  ivar  on  War. 

Yea,  the  world  might  once  have  said 

That  we  were  long  in  peace. 

No  longer  can  it  say 

America  knows  not  war. 

48 


The  American,  after  brooding  upon  the  idea,  takes  up 
his  argument  more  earnestly,  continuing: 

America  does  not  know? 

I  think  we  know  too  well, 

I  think  we  know  at  last. 

Not  with  the  passion  that  bursts 

From  the  brave  tormented  heart 

At  sight  of  French  fields  torn 

And  orchards  murdered  down; 

Not  with  the  doomed  despair 

Of  Servia,   race-extinct, 

Watching  the  women  and  girls, 

Packed   like  frightened   beasts 

Herded,  in  slavish  fear 

Of  many  shames  and  deaths, 

Looking  back  to  the  hills 

Where  the  bodies  of  murdered   men 

Spell  the  End  of  the  Race. 

Not  with  the  frightful  sense 

Of  tangled  pride  and  lies, 

And  great  undisciplines 

Of  Russia's  wolving  hordes. 

Not  with  that  English  heart 

That  bears  its  burden  dumb, 

And  puts  its  sorrow  by, 

And  keeps  its  firm  face  fixed 

Toward  its  solemn  duty,  dumb 

49 


Against  outside  attacks, 

Dumb  under  awful  grief, 

Dumb  under  bitter  trial, 

But  with  a  knowledge  strong 

Of  the  Faith  that  comes  with  death 

And  with  the  Duty  born 

Of  a  perfect  fearlessness.  .  .  . 

Not  with  passions  like  these 

America  goes  to  the  Test, 

But  with  new  Law  in  her  eyes 

And  a  new  Dream  in  her  heart — 

Dying  into  her  birth.       • 

The  Woodcarver  drops  his  work.  He  folds  his  arms 
among  the  shavings  on  the  table,  and  leans  his  head 
on  them  staring  at  the  war  correspondent,  who  sits 
shoulder  dropped,  knees  wide  apart,  smoking  thought- 
fully,  continuing; 

America  knows  not  War, 

As  a  lasting  principle. 

But  knows  that  War  must  be, 

Till  the  Germ  of  War  be  killed. 

Now  that  the  way  is  seen, 

America  comes  forth, 

Makes  that  her  battle-cry. 

We  care  for  that,  as  we  care 

For  honesty  in  the  eyes 

Of  the  children  of  our  race, 

SO 


For  fairness,  squareness,  right; 

The  way  we  care  for  a  road, 

That  loops  up  through  the  hills 

Of  our  Rocky  Mountain  peaks, 

For  a  finely  poised  machine, 

For  a  finely  written  tale, 

For  a  deed  done  with  despatch 

And  sureness  and  brevity. 

We  care  for  it,  as  we  care 

For  a  plunge  in  a  mountain  lake, 

The  smell  of  the  woodland  trail, 

The  secret  of  purple  tides, 

The  science  of  charted  stars. 

My  country  has  a  dream, 

The  dream  of  equal  rights, 

The  dream  of  a  greater  self, 

Merging  of  Bignesses, 

Of  Progress,  Land  and  Men. 

The  conquest  of  all  fear 

For  ourselves  and  for  other  men. 

My  country  cares  for  Peace; 

My  country  dies  for  Peace. 

But  we  care  like  the  surgeon,  who 

Hand  steady  and  eyes  set  stern, 

Cuts  without  thought  of  shame 

Or  pity  or  silly  fears, 

Till  the  gangrene  is  excised; 

Cuts  the  dead  flesh  away 

51 


And  sees  new  healing  powers 
New  vigors  and  new  healths. 
My  country  comes  to  yours, 
To  all  the  ailing  lands, 
And  stands  with  face  strong  set, 
Jaws  firm,  eyes  straight  ahead, 
To  do  this  surgery, 
And  keep  itself  more  clean 
To  operate  success, 
And  know  no  poisoning. 
And,  as  the  surgeon  holds 
His  body  and  muscles  hard, 
His  hands  firm  and  true, 
As  a  mother's  with  a  child, 
And  his  eyes  clear  and  kind — 
So  must  we  keep  ourselves 
Strong  for  our  mighty  work; 
No  poison  of  Greed  and  Self, 
No  poisons  of  class  and  caste, 
But  our  hands  tender  and  strong, 
Our  eyes  tender  and  cool, 
Our  words  humble  and  true, 
Our  hearts — God  help  us! — pure. 

As  the  American  finishes,  the  child  rushes,  in  wild 
excitement,  crying: 

"Master — O  Master,  there  is  a  soldier  come  down  from 
the  front — one  of  the  Bersagliere — from  the  floods  of  the 

52 


Piave.  He  found  a  boat,  and,  with  his  one  poor  hand, 
he  has  rowed  it  down  the  lagoons.  The  boat  is  full  of 
blood.  His  side — his  eyes  are  bleeding — O  Master — 
Master!"  There  is  a  startled  whir  of  the  pigeons  flying 
past,  as  a  man's  steps  are  heard  dragging  themselves 
over  the  stone  pavement  of  the  Calla.  The  child  stands 
petrified  at  sight  of  the  wounded  soldier,  covered  with 
mud  and  blood,  yet  still  wearing  the  draggled  beaver  hat 
with  coque  feathers,  the  long  yellow  gaiters  and  torn 
blue  coat.  He  staggers  in,  makes  the  sign  of  the  cross 
to  the  winged  figures  all  about  him,  and  sinks  coughing 
on  a  bench.  His  head  drops  forward.  The  old  Wood- 
carver  falls  on  his  knees  before  him,  takes  off  his  hat, 
and  peers  into  his  face.  The  American  bends  over  him, 
takes  a  flask  from  his  hip  pocket,  and  pouring  some  of 
the  contents  on  his  handkerchief,  puts  it  between  the 
man's  shaking  lips. 

Woodcarver  with  horror: 

"Holy  Virgin,  protect  us! 

'Tis  Pietro!  the  Gondolier, 

Whose  song  was  merriest 

On  all  the  moving  canals; 

Whose  cry  soared  over  the  housetops 

And   dreaming   palaces 

Like  a  chain  of  golden  moons. 

He  was  a  supple  figure, 

Leaning  upon  his  oar, 

53 


With  his  scarlet  sash  and  his  cap, 
And  the  saucy  black  on  his  lip, 
A  merry  scalawag. 
Virgin!   but  he  has  grown 
Older  than  any  world ; 
Older  than  anything 
Dug  out  of  a  month's  old  grave, 
And  set  to  live  again. 

The  Bersagliere  sits  panting,  his  eyes  roll  around  the 
shop  vacantly  and  wildly.  Suddenly  his  glance  falls  on 
the  half  finished  wooden  Christ  lying  on  the  table.  He 
struggles  up,  clutches  it,  and  presses  it  to  his  lips.  His 
hands  close  over  it,  his  bleeding  face  breaks  into  pitiful 
sobs,  and  he  moans  like  an  animal. 

The  American,  turning  his  head  away,  bites  his  lips 
muttering: 

"Their  Christ— Their  Christ. 
They  will  all  die  for  him; 
But  Ah!   it  takes  anguish, 
Anguish  of  many  kinds, 
To  make  us  humble  enough 
To  make  us  wise  enough 
To  try  to  live  for  him." 

The  war  correspondent  leaves  the  flask  in  the  hands 
of  the  Woodcarver,  who  hangs  over  his  friend  like  a 
woman,  taking  off  the  hat,  smoothing  the  battered  coque 
feathers,  stroking  the  hair  back  from  the  bleeding  brow. 

54 


He  pours  water  out  of  a  flask,  and  bathes  the  grey 
shaking  face;  he  finally  draws  a  very  small  fragment 
of  his  black  bread  from  his  breast,  and,  with  a  strange 
passionate  gesture  of  renunciation,  offers  it  to  the  soldier, 
who  wolfishly  snatches,  and  quickly  devours  it.  He 
groans  with  his  eyes  closed,  then  looks  appealing  up  at 
the  Christ  in  the  Woodcarver's  hand,  and  crosses  him- 
self. 

The  Woodcarver  in  a  low  tone  to  the  American: 

//  is  like  the  Sacrament. 

The  American:     It  is  like It  is  like The  war 

correspondent  breaks  off  suddenly;  he  flings  himself  to 
the  door  clenching  his  hand.  The  child  runs  to  him, 
beckoning  and  pointing  to  sky. 

Overhead,  far  above  the  buildings,  flies  a  squadron  of 
airplanes.  They  are  bronze,  gold  and  silver  in  the  sun- 
light. The  correspondent  looking  at  them  with  his  field 
glasses,  can  distinguish  them  as  Austrian  planes.  They 
drop  no  bombs.  As  they  pass  the  war  correspondent 
looks  back  over  his  shoulder  at  the  Woodcarver — 

War  correspondent: 

They   drop   no  bombs   on   Venice, 
Do  they  treasure  beauty  still? 
So  that  they  are  loath  to  crush? 

The  Woodcarver: 

They  fly  superbly  and  strong. 

55 


The  American: 

'Tis  a  short,  glancing,  fatal  life,  yet  imperial  as  a 
God's. 

The  Bersagliere,  savagely: 

"Well?     Do  they  attack?     Hell  to  their  insolence! 

The  child : 

Oh!  but  see  our  pigeons  fly  with  them! 

The  American: 

Like  the  shadows  of  their  souls. 

The  Woodcarver,  somberly  with  mystic  emphasis: 

The  planes  are  companied  always 

By  the  souls  of  the  young  dead  fliers, 

The  air-men  who  have  died, 

Not  knowing  victory, 

Who  cannot  rest  in  graves, 

But  still  ride  on  the  air, 

Asking,  How  will  it  end? 

The  Woodcarver  is  still  staring  up  into  the  sky.     The 
child   steals  up  to  him,   and   slips  his  hand  in  his. 
Woodcarver  in  a  sort  of  chant  to  the  child : 

Yea,  in  the  fair  blue  air, 
In  the  silken  glass-blown  air, 
Full  of  its  flowery  forms, 
Or  un-embodied  souls, 

56 


These  disembodied   fly — 
Asking,  Hoiu  will  it  end? 
Myriad  wonders  soar, 
Fly  with  our  flying  hordes, 
The  flying  hordes  of  our  foe, 
Asking,  Ho<w  ivill  it  endf 
Youth  with  a  smile  on  its  lips, 
Youth  with   untired   powers, 
Youth  with  its  gallant  need 
Of  dying  for  a  belief. 
Now  Youth  flies  forward, 
Softly  on  lucid  air, 
Lifting  our  earth-faces, 
Guiding  our  feet  that  walk 
In  the  old  stubborn  ways, 
Calling  us  to  the  air, 
Asking,  How  does  it  end? 

What  is  the  gain,  asks  Youth, 
That  we  died  and  never  grudged 
Our  generous  young  death, 
Unless  you  learn  the  Word, 
And  learn  that  Nothing  is, 
Nothing  can  ever  be, 
Until  men  turn  them  to 
Their  labors  for  a  thing 
That  shall  be  greater  far 
Than   any  gain  of  war? 

57 


Dead  youth  with  untired   powers — 
Defeated  of  its  life, 
And  life  it  could  have  given — 
Hangs  on  surrounding  air, 
And  tries  to  speak  the  Word, 
The  new,  all-languaged  Word 
By  which  shall  come  release 
From  the  Torture  of  the  World, 
The  Battle  cry  of  .  .  .  Peace! 

They  all  cluster  around  the  doorway  watching  the 
marvelous  evolutions  of  the  airplanes.  The  pigeons  soar 
under  them,  and  the  child  for  the  first  time  smiles — 

The  child,  quaintly: 

The  birds  taught  them  to  fly. 

Will  the  sweet  birds  teach  them  peace? 

American  smiling,   rumpling  the  child's  hair  tenderly: 

The  scientists  say,  little  one, 
That  a   bird   develops  far 
Beyond  man's  imperfection. 
Who  knows  what  we  can  learn, 
Now  that  we,  too,  have  wings? 

He  turns  td  the  Woodcarver  pointing  to  the  pigeons: 

I  mind  me  of  one  spring  morning, 
When  first  I  saw  them  whirl 
In  their  Winged  Parliament; 

58 


'Twas  May,  and  Venice  was  bridal. 

Bridal  she  always  was, 

The  fragile,  aged  city 

That  keeps  beauty  within 

Her  shadowy  tragic  heart. 

'Twas  May  and  Venice  was  bridal. 

Golden  light  on  the  housetops, 

Limpid  green  on  the  water ; 

Palaces  gleamed  and  thrilled, 

Pallidly  swimming  and  breaking 

Into   a   lovely  destruction, 

At  every  passing  of  oars 

Along  their  circling  mirror. 

The  American,  a  look  of  ineffable  regret  on  his  fac<\ 
recapitulates  the  beauty  of  Venice: 

Ripples  on  white  steps  breaking, 

Wistaria  over  the  doorways, 

A  bright  bird  high  in  a  window, 

Carved  heads  on  colonnades, 

Musing  statues  smiling 

Through  the  tangles  of  a  vine. 

In  a  hundred  broken  trances, 

A  thousand  flickering  candles, 

In  glooms  of  the  sanctuary 

And  burst  of  the  priests  strong  song, 

In  processions  of  Corpus  Christi; 

A  thousand  broken  reflections, 

59 


Sweet  cries  of  melon  vendors, 

Swish  of  oars  and  of  barges; 

A  scented  warmth  with  the  plashing 

Of  sinuous  gondolas, 

Black  and  gold  on  the  color, 

Fastened  at  the  traghetti 

Lolling  on  freshening  tides, 

White  was  the  Delia  Salute, 

Bubbling  with  many  towers, 

On  the  fluttering  Guidecca, 

Bright  with  its  tatters  and  patches, 

The  solemn  Redentore. 

On  the  ancient  hooded  Rialto 

Merchants  clamoring  still; 

On  the  shifting  Schiavoni, 

Fluttering  tourists   and  children, 

Eager,  impressed   and  caught 

In  enchantment  older  than  love. 

Venice  the  aged  queen, 

Took  them  upon  her  knees, 

And  showed  them  her  fabulous  book 

Of  melting  picture-dreams, 

Of  saints  and  gods  and  kings, 

Of  martyrs,  Doges,  and  Popes, 

Of  painters  and  architects; 

Told  them  her  amorous  tales 

Of  adventure  and  emprise, 

Of  sea-fogs  covering  deeds, 

Strange  and  wicked  and  old, 

60 


Of  gallants  in  muffling  cloaks, 

Of  the  lions'  mouths  in  the  square; 

Told  them  her  amorous  tales, 

Saying,   "All   ends  in  Beauty," 

And  sent  them  out  from  her  courts — 

Whispering,  "All  ends  in  Beauty." 

Venice  in  delicate  age, 

Beauty  in  power  and  age, 

Age  like   frost  on   the   grass, 

Age  like  the  age  of  the  tree, 

Like  a  fountain  that  never  dries — 

Such  was  Venice  that  morn — 

And  the  doves  over  it  all! 

The  American  suddenly  turns,  and  shakes  his  fist  in 
the  direction  of  the  booming  of  the  guns.  He  faces  the 
other  two  men  demanding  tensely: 

Rheims  had  beauty  like  that. 

France  had  beauty  like  that. 

Belgium  had  beauty  like  that. 

What  is  the  doom  of  the  world  ? 

What  must  our  science  teach? 

What  must  religion  work? 

What  is  it  men  need  to  know, 

Before  beauty  like  this 

Can  be  spared  to  the  hungry  world, 

That  needs  to  drink  of  the  cup 

Of  Beauty  for  its  life? 
The    Bersagliere    looks    up;    the    cut    on    his    forehead 
61 


bleeds  less  freely  but  he  holds  his  ragged  handkerchief 
to  it.  As  he  speaks,  he  motions  toward  the  unfinished 
Christ  lying  on  the  table — his  voice  a  gutteral  whisper. 

The  Bersagliere: 

Never  the  hungry  world, 
The  desperate  childish  world, 
The  feeble  stupid  world, 
Caught  in  its  horrible  webs, 
Of  stupid  desires  and  needs, 
Of  pamperings  and  sloth, 
Of  pride  and  avarice, 
Of  class  and  snobbery; 
Never  the  world  can  be  saved 
Until  we  look  on  this. 

He  reaches  over,  seizes  the  cross  and  embraces  it,  pas- 
sionately continuing  between  moans: 

In  the  trenches  they  say  it, 
In  the  hospitals  know  it. 
Men  have  talked  to  each  other, 
Lying  sobbing  with  pain 
Under  the  misery 
Of  stabbing  knives  of  cold. 
Out  under  the  stars, 
Where  the  broken  bodies  lie 
Of  young  men  scattered  stiff 
In  terrible   postures  of  death; 
Or  sweet  boys  broken  up 

62 


In  ghastly  pieces  of  death. 
The  broken  whispers  sob: 
The  body  and  blood  of  Christ. 
"The  body  and  blood  of  Christ," 
It  has  been  broken   again, 
By  all  the  simple  people 
The  patient  humble  people; 
A  long  communion  table, 
Stretching  out  through  all  lands. 
The  body  and  blood  of  Christ, 
Given  to  us  again 
By  these  his  ignorant  men, 
Who  when  they  crashed  to  death 
On  mountain  or  on  plain 
Resigned  their  souls  to  Him. 

The  Bersagliere  raises  his  arm  to  heaven  'as  if  regis- 
tering a  vow: 

Nevermore  will  I  take 

The  holy  sacrament 

But  that  my  lips  will  say, 

The  bodies  and   blood  of  men 

Never  will  I  receive 

The  wafer  on  my  lips 

But  after  Christ's  sweet  name. 

"Bodies  and  blood  of  men!" 

Bitter  will  be  the  wine 

Unless  I  murmur  soft 

"The  bodies  and  blood  of  men 

63 


Who  die,  that  He  might  live." 

Woodcarver  regarding  the  stricken  soldier.  Ah!  what 
does  this  chaos  mean? 

The  American  bites  his  lips  and  clenches  his  hand. 
Finally  he  turns  to  where  the  cross  lies  on  the  table, 
takes  it  up  reverently  and  curiously,  and  looks  at  it  as 
at  some  new  thing. 

The  American,  reverently: 

It  means,  a  new-raised  cross; 
The  simple  things  Christ  knew, 
And  a  Christ  that  has  not  died. 
It  means  a  new  found  self, 
And  a  Soul  that  trusts  itself. 
It  means  a  Mind  that  sees 
Beyond  race  boundaries, 
Beyond  all   Separates 
Of  race  or  land  or  kin; 
One  People  that  shall  rise 
Throughout  the  nationed  globe, 
And  speak  one  solemn  word 
With  all  their  various  tongues, 
There  shall  be  no  more  War! 
One  People  shall  demand, 
For  the  children  still  to  be, 
That  Self  shall  be  consumed 
In  the  Passion  No  more  War. 
One  Science  dedicate 

To  a  solemn  World-emprise,  * 

Spreading  immortal  health 
64 


Over  the  whole  of  life; 

That  engines  be  dedicate 

To  the  good  and  help  of  the  world ; 

That  crops  be  dedicate 

To  the  strength  and  life  of  the  world ; 

That  gold  be  dedicate 

To  the  power  and  might  of  the  world ; 

That  Mind  be  dedicate 

To  the  reverent  Law  of  the  World. 

They  all  regard  him  in  wonder,  until  the  Woodcarver 
demands, — 

And  what  of  race-pride? 

Bersagliere: 

And  what  of  commerce? 

Child : 

And  what  of  home  and  hearth? 

The  American: 
I  know  not. 
I  know  only, 
All  else  is  lost  and  fails. 
I  know  new  forces  shape 
Illimitable  life 
Out  of  infinite  Mind. 

He   looks   at  the  Bersagliere,   touching  him  gently  on 
the  shoulder,  saying  softly: 

Tis  a  long  communion  table; 
We  all  kneel  at  that  table. 
65 


It  stretches  through  many  lands, 
It  is  spread  in  many  minds. 
How   do   we    go   from    that   table? 
The  bodies  and  blood  of  men 
Must  not  be  given  in  vain. 

The   American,   turning  to   the   Woodcarver,   looks   at 
him   wistfully.      He   gestures   to   the   winged    figures   all 
about,  and  says  gravely  and  reverently: 
Go   on   making  angels! 

The  American,  turning  to  the  child,  puts  his  arm 
around  him,  and  together  they  stand  at  the  door  looking 
up  at  the  whirling  doves. 

American  gently: 

Know'st  thou,  little  one, 

They  be  pigeons, 

Who  bear  all  tidings 

Under  their  wings? 

Over  the  borders 

Listen,  One  day, 

Winged  men  shall  cross 

All  the  borders 

With  messages  under  their  wings. 

And  the  Parliaments  shall  meet 

To  try  their  mighty  wings 

Of   fresh   and   buoyant  thought, 

And  the  minds  of  men  shall  rise 

To  the  cleanness  of  the  skies, 

And  the  way  shall  be  made  clear, 

66 


And  your  world  be  safe  once  more. 

You  shall  see  clouds  of  planes, 

Soaring   over   your   home 

Bringing  tidings  of   hope, 

Dropping   flowers   on   the   graves 

Of  the  everlasting  Young, 

Who  died  to  further  it. 

Flocks  of  singing  planes, 

Voyaging  over  the  air, 

With  singing  men   and  women, 

Chanting  a  paeon  of  peace, 

So  that  your  children's  sons, 

Their  noble  heritage, 

Shall  register  and   say 

"The  tearless  days  came  in 

With  the  winged  flying  men, 

And  the  flying  Parliaments 

Brought  to  us  lasting  Peace." 
The    American    turns    to    the   Woodcarver.      He    looks 
long   and    fixedly   at   him.     At   last   he   smiles   wistfully, 
and  points  to  the  winged  figures  all  about,  saying  soberly: 
Go  on  making  angels! 
He   makes   a    slight  gesture   of   farewell,    steps   out  of 
the  door  and  into  the  piazza  San  Marco.     Standing  there 
he  looks  at  the  Italian  flag,  then  at  the  small  tricolor  in 
his    own    button-hole.      Smiling    reverently    and    tenderly 
upon   them,   he   stretches   out  his   arms   toward   the   sky, 
and    with    a    gesture    of    passionate    hope    and    appeal, 
■alutes  the  Air. 

67 


"GONE   WEST" 

WEST  Wind  blowing  from  the  far  clime, 
What  seeds  are  you  sowing  for  the  New  Time? 
"Pollen  of  souls  that  died 
In  a  young  smiling  pride, 
Scattered  of  chivalry  and  world-dream  sublime." 

West  Wind  filling  all  the  green  trees, 

What  hope  did  they  leave  for  us  on  our  knees? 

"Their  happy,  high  Belief 

To  you  they  now  bequeath — 
Their  vast,  unconquered  Sky  bannered  with  breeze." 

Bright  Wind  surging  from  the  clean  West, 

What  were  they  urging  on  their  gay  young  quest? 

"High  Urge  and  keen, 

That  Life  shall  mean 
Bold  truths,  faced  with  a  bold  broad  breast." 
West  Wind  blowing  from  their  dim  coasts, 
Do  they  see  weakness  of  all  human  boasts? 

"Yes,  but  they  know 

That  men  still  go 
Forward  and  Forward  in  strong  steady  hosts." 

West  Wind,  West  Wind,  what  will  they  do 

If  we  should  fail  them — should  prove  us  untrue? 

Fail  them?     That  cannot  be. 

For  all  Eternity 

Faith  in  World-Liberty 
Joins  them  to  You! 

68 


OTHER   POEMS 


THE    HAPPY   PEOPLE 

"And  as  I  sat,  over  the  pale  blue  hills  came  a  noise 
)f  revellers." — Endymion. 

DOWN  the  spring  slope  sweep  the  Happy  People 
In  a  stream; 
Pressing  naked  feet  in  rosy  clover, 
Flitting  through  the   glades  where   songbirds   hover, 
Following  brooks  that  run  the  meadows  over; 
(In  my  dream.) 

Down  the  green  lawns  throng  the  Happy  People, 

Joy  supreme 

In  their  poised  hands  garlanded  with  flowers, 

Joy  of  soft  limbs  fresh  from  sun  and  showers, 

Joy  of  sweet  lips  tasting  dewy  hours; 

(In  my  dream.) 

Toward  the  mountains  fare  the  Happy  People, 

And  they  seem 

Waving  me  a  promise  bright  and  splendid, 

Calling  me  to  take  the  way  they  wended. 

(But  that  way  began — so  has  it  ended 

In  my  dream.) 


71 


FROM   TREE    CLOISTER 

OUT  of  the  city  I  came, 
Heart  aflame, 
Thoughts  oblique,  confused,  amazed ; 
My  yester  dreamings  hurt  and  dazed 
With  the  stifling  buildings  sweeping  high 
And  the  towers  choking  the  dingy  sky. 
But  I  left  it  all  to  cross  the  dune, 
Hand  in  hand  with  the  crescent  moon. 

Out  of  the  city  I  came, 

Dreams  of  Fame 

Dogged  me  up  to  my  cottage  walls, 

Human  passions  and  powers  and  thralls 

Challenged  the  way  I  took 

By  the  frozen  meadow  brook ; 

But  the  hill-top  pasture  bars 

Chapelled  the  winter  stars, 

And  their  votive  candles  burned 

At  the  gate  wherein  I  turned. 

Out  of  the  city  I  came. 
Father  of  endless  name, 
Who  burn  there  burn  on  thy  sacred  pyre- 
Burn  with  the  flame  of  the  heart's  desire 
Toward  flame  of  worthier  things, 


72 


Toward   lifting  of  broader  wings; 

And  their  purple  gift  and  their  scarlet  boon 

I  hang  on  my  altars  of  winter  noon. 

I  speak  to  the  brook  in  its  icy  shrine, 

Confess  to  the  tall  dark  palmer  pine, 

And  soft  on  the  country  air, 

I  breathe  the  cities'   prayer. 


FROM   A   WINDOW 

THE  ever-greens  that  line  the  road 
Bow  snowy  heads  upon  the  sight; 
The  netted  horses  draw  the  load 
As  it  were  light. 

The  living  grief  I  would  not  see, 
The  hands  in  helpless  quiet  wrung; 
But  the  white  trappings  say  that  she 
Was  fair  and  young. 

The  coaches  blot  the  wintry  scene 
Passing  where  snow-blue  shadows  lurk.  .  .  . 
Youth,  Life,  Love,  Death — what  do  they  mean? 
Back  to  my  work! 


73 


BIRTHRIGHT 

HOW  have  I  lost  them,  the  old  powers  of  dream? 
I  used  to  float  through  life,  as  on  expanse 
Quivering  with  light,  slow-moving  in  a  trance 
That  bore  me  like  a  petal  on  its  stream. 

Now,  mouth  and  eyes  are  filled  with  dust  of  life. 
I,  once  a  Seer,  with  my  crystal  globe, 
Know  now  no  sphere,  no  irridescent  robe; 
But  bear  me  like  a  thief,  with  hand  on  knife. 

How  have  I  lost  them,  the  old  powers  of  dream? 
I,  who  was  so  content  with  simple  things — 
With  one  bright  Autumn  leaf,  wood  murmurings, 
The  near-spun  grass,  or  one  star's  far  off  gleam? 

Now,  I  bear  burdens  with  an  ashen  face. 

I  count  my  gains,  I  clamor  at  my  loss; 

I  too  have  joined  the  tawdry  pitch  and  toss, 

Who  once  walked  tranced,  with  illusioned  pace. 

Since  they  are  dead  to  me,  dear  dreaming  powers- 
Dead,  with  their  grail  and  magic,  visions,  wings — 
I  shall  distil  the  attar  sorrow  brings, 
And  lave  them  in  the  sweet  of  their  own  hours. 

I  shall  their  delicate  bright  figures  lay 
Embalmed  in  gold,  in  so  profound  a  rock, 
That  no  sharp-featured  pain  shall  find  a  way 
To  touch,  and  no  smug  knowledge  come  to  mock. 

74 


TO   A   LONELY    STAR 

ONCE  more  we  keep  our  tryst — I  on  the  beach, 
Brooding  in  milky  tides  of  Autumn  moon, 
Watching  the  gold  black  water  softly  reach 
And  fill  the  hollows  of  grass  silvered  dune; 
Till,  far  beyond  the  rim  of  a  lagoon 
I  see  Thee  in  thy  calm  ascension  tread 
A  darkened  way  to  thy  cloud-cloistered  rest; 
Hanging  thy  maiden  lantern  in  the  West, 
Where  planet  torches  lie  extinguished. 

The  world  will  never  miss  me  when  I  go. 
These  gossip  ripples  in  the  sedges  there 
Will  still  be  whispering  of  that  Thing  they  know; 
The  moon's  new  milk  will  bathe  the  young  and  fair, 
Nourishing  Youth  and  Passion  with  such  care. 
But  Thou,  O  Abbess  Star!  keep  trimmed  thy  light, 
1  aking  thy  warder-way  across  the  moor. 
Yea,  many  a  woman  by  her  cottage  door 
Will  need  thy  comfort  all  the  lonely  night. 


75 


THE   OLD    ORDER   CHANGETH 

THERE  comes  the  time  when  he  who  gathers  grapes 
Must  find  his  vineyard  in  the  city  street, 
Must  press  what  wine  he  may  from  lobate  shapes 
And  gobules  clustered  at  his  head  and  feet. 
The  press  he  treads  will  be  the  city  night — 
Bubble  and  bloom  and  burst  of  heady  wine; 
No  fairer  fresher  grapes  will  meet  his  sight 
Than  pallid  fruit  of  the  electric  vine! 

There  comes  the  time  when  he  who  longs  for  song 
Must  turn  to  monsters  dreaming  in  the  dark, 
That  Science-incubated  aeons  long; 
Will  give  to  music  new  heresiarch! 
But  Harmonies  of  pride  and  lust  and  doubt 
Will  greet  the  ear,  that  for  some  human  hymn 
Longs  bitterly,  hearing  the  brassy  shout 
Of  engine  songs,  massive,  superb  and  grim. 

In  those  stark  days  new  Lancelots  shall  pass 
Accoutered  black,  with  the  bi-colored  plume. 
New  Siegfrieds,  armored  in  their  steel  and  brass, 
Shall  flash  subseas  in  tunnelled  ocean  gloom. 
Woman  and  Science,  gaunt  with  bold  new  brow, 
Shall  say  what  shall  be  born,  what  thing  shall  cry 
Pioneer  on  its  lurching,  airdashed  prow, 
Air-immigrant  to  habors  of  the  sky. 


76 


There  comes  the  day  when  on  the  sea  of  stars 
Unspoken  ships  shall  lay  unsounded  course, 
And  looming  shapes,  outside  uncharted  bars, 
Shall  dumbly  signal  with  some  speechless  force. 
New  worlds  shall  stare  on  other  worlds  that  be, 
Sailing  close  by  them  on  that  starry  sea, 
And  know  that  all  the  Main  that  round  them  rolls 
Swells  to  new  moons,  new  seas,  new  tides,  new  poles. 

There  comes  the  time,  O  patient  Human  heart, 
O  Brave  Pathetic — time  when  thou  must  see 
The  old,  the  dear,  the  simple  things  depart, 
Who  canst  not  love  the  strange  new  things  to  be. 
Yet  by  this  New,  shall  not  thy  vision  grow 
To  some  estate,  some  altitude  of  range, 
Where  it  is  given  thee  that  thou  shalt  know 
What  Changeless  'tis,  that  underlies  all  change? 


77 


THE   TRAMP 

THE  ragged  sun,  the  wind-filled  sky, 
The  wet  track  and  the  empty  car; 
The  night-hung  woods,  and,  raised  on  high, 
The  lighted  candle  of  a  star. 

So  reads  his  heraldry,  who  prowls 
On  listless  following  of  chance; 
Who,  sullenly  appraising,  scowls 
On  the  rich  dwelling's  circumstance. 

The  cloud  of  smoke  upon  the  hill, 
The  rag  left  on  the  highway's  beat, 
The  light  o'er  a  deserted  sill — 
These  mark  the  passing  of  his  feet. 

No  strenuous  call  of  noontime  bells 
Vibrates  through  ether  of  his  dreams; 
For  him  no  clock  the  hour  tells; 
For  him  no  church's  spire  gleams. 

Though  from  his  thoughts  undisciplined 
To  warehouse  and  to  street  averse, 
He,  in  exchanges  of  his  mind, 
Diverts  him  with  a  lavish  purse — 


78 


Diverts  him  with  his  social  schemes, 
His  plan  against  the  existing  plot; 
And  what  he,  of  his  justice,  deems 
Would — justice  practised — be  his  lot. 

Of  whence  he  comes,  of  where  he  goes — 
These  things  no  human  record  keeps. 
What  black  unwritten  deed  he  does, 
What  pure  fair  hope  within  him  sleeps. 

What  strange   mysterious   power  he  wields, 
What  undeveloped  force  to  sway, 
None  guess  who  see  him  cross  the  fields, 
Or  plodding  on  his  stealthy  way. 

Only  dead  fires  attest  his  life, 
Only  dumb  trees  his  brothers  stand ; 
He  knows  not  home  nor  child,  nor  wife, 
Nor  friendly  grasp  of  any  hand, 

Yet  lays  his  scheme  for  daily  food, 
Yet  keeps  him  keen  for  filching  pence 
For  this  .  .  .  o'er  pipe   and  fire  to  brood — 
Spending  imagined  affluence! 


79 


IN    THE    STRANGE    COUNTRY 

I  SPEAK  your  language  very  glibly  now, 
Have  all  the  countersigns  and  know  the  range 
Of  all  your  boundaries ;  the  streets  I  know.  .  .  . 
And  yet,  your  land  is  strange. 

You  ask  me  whence  I  came?     I  cannot  tell. 
My  Race?     Ah!  God  forbid  that  you  should  see 
Others  like  me, — in  this  land  where  you  dwell — 
Not  such  as  we. 

"Do  you  have  news?"  you  ask.     My  heart  contracts. 
Do  I  have  news?  .  .  .     Yea,  messages  do  come, 
As  if  I  had  made  wistful,  faithful  pacts 
With  those  .  .  .  back  home.  .  .  . 

This  butterfly  brought  one,  that  errant  vine 
Conveys  a  Word ;   the   Sea,  it  would   seem,   knows.  . 
Sweet  tidings  that  I  cannot  quite  divine 
The  flowers  disclose. 

But  since  you  ask  me  idly,  let  me  say, 
I  know  not  whence  I  am,  nor  why  I  come ; 
Yet  I  sit  with  you  in  your  inn  today 
Devising  speech — though  dumb. 


80 


RAIN    PICTURES 

First  Picture 

MONOCHORD 

THE  soft  rain  falls;  the  willow  trees 
Throw  silver  tangle  on  the  breeze, 
While  Robin  tunes  his  pipe  and  blows 
His  joyance  down  the  orchard-close. 
Amid  the  spraying  crystal  notes 
One  irridescent  bubble  floats — 
Bubble  of  music,  that  careens 
Adown  the  pasture's  mottled  greens. 
How  tell  the  rapture  that  he  sings 
To  beatings  of  his  happy  wings? 
Why  praise  the  story  that  he  tells, 
The  message  that  his  bosom  swells  .  .  .   ? 
Ah!  he  is  Robin,  and  he  goes, 
Singing  the  only  song  he  knows. 

The  sweet  saps  rise ;  the  maple  trees 
Drink  deep  and  scatter  crimson  lees. 
I  wander  up  and  down  the  stream, 
Singing  the  music  of  my  dream; 
Its  cadence  vague,  its  plaintive  strain 
Attunes  it  to  the  Harp  of  Rain ; 

The  muted  branches  softly  play 
An  obligato  to  my  lay; 

81 


The  drooping  willows  pluck  the  stream 
With  pensive  touch  that  marks  the  theme, 
And  all  the  trilling  water-tune 
Accompanies  my  simple  rune. 

No  heart  have  I  to  wake  the  green 
With  joyous  lilting  loud  and  keen. 
I  tune  no  pipe  for  jaunty  snatch 
Like  Robin's  loud  ecstatic  catch. 
I  sing  the  song  of  wistful  things, 
Dumb  longings,  blind  imaginings.  .  .  . 
And  yet,  why  blame  me  that  I  stray, 
Crooning  so  poor  a   rondelay? 
Ah!  I  am  Human,  and  I  go 
Singing  the  only  song  I  know. 

Second  Picture 

OMEN 

My  tree-calf  books;  my  seven  branched  candle-stick 
The  pine-knot's  bursting  heart,  flame-plethoric; 
My  jug  from  old  Fiesole ;  the  rain, 
And  the  witch-vine  that  darkly  taps  the  pane. 

The  witch-vine  signals,  and  the  rainy  night 
Enters  my  heart;  puts  out  its  wan  rush  light, 
Like  a  chill  blast  of  fore-writ  doom  and  tears, 
Extinguishing  the  meaning  of  my  years. 

Then  come  the  spectral  tapping  on  the  pane, 
Counting  the  unmarked  graves  of  things  as  vain 


82 


As  that  bright-bound,  dumb  company  of  books 
And  worthless  treasure  of  my  chamber  nooks. 

Let  be,  O  witch-vine  fingers!     I  have  grown 
So  kindly  used  to  living  all  alone. 
Let  be,  O  furtive  night!     And  I  would  fain 
Be  unremarked  of  thee,  O  brooding  rain! 

Be  unreminded,  when  the  tendril  taps 

Keep  count  of  years — of  the  remorseless  lapse 

Of  time  .  .  .  for  I  must  tend  my  fire  yet, 

And  hear  the  storm,  and  see  the  window  wet, 

Thinking  of  some  strange  hour  of  frozen  peace, 
When  the  reproach  of  wind  and  rain  shall  cease 
Thinking  what  Guest  sits  by  .  .  .  when  fires  wane, 
And  the  witch-vine  lies  withered  on  the  pane. 

Third  Picture 

FANTASY      . 

Down  the  black  mountain 
The  fairies  come,  I  ween ; 
Tarrying  hither, 
Hurrying  thither, 
Grey-bright, 
Phantom  flight, 
Winging  by  the  glass. 
Lo!  spreads  a  green, 
Leaf-lattice  screen. 

83 


In  the  stark  valley 
The  fairies  riches  feign ; 
They  fling,  they  sprinkle 
Tiny  gems  a-twinkle ; 
Water  gems, 
Flower  gems 
Sparkle  in  the  grass. 
Lo!  in  the  lane, 
Blood-root  again. 

On  the  dull  houses 

The  fairies  come  to  dance; 

They  masque,  they  chatter, 

Elfin  goblets  shatter, 

"Health  to  Spring," 

So  they  sing, 

Laughing  in  the  eaves. 

Lo!  like  a  lance, 

See  sunlight  glance! 

From  a  poor  spirit 
The  fairies  take  the  fears ; 
They  soothe,  they  flatter, 
They  sing,  "What  matter?" 
"Oh!  Life  is  good  to  try!" 
Lo!  through  my  tears, 
All  the  sky  clears. 

84 


WAR    POEMS 


'WE     MUST     MAKE     THE     WORLD     SAFE     FOR 
DEMOCRACY."     1917. 

OUT  on  the  prairies; 
Where  rivers  flow; 
On  crests  of  mountains 
The  stern  words  glow. 
"War,"  say  the  rocks. 
The  rails  ring,  "War." 
From  smoking  chimneys 
The  solemn  clouds  pour. 

War  in  the  khaki, 
War  in  the  lace; 
On  youthful  forehead 
And  stern  old  face. 
"War!"  smiles  the  lips, 
Though  the  heart  sobs  "War." 
A  Nation's  eyes  flash 
Like  keen  scimitar. 

On  all  the  houses 
The  flags  are  like  fires. 
East,  West,  arouses, 
West,  East  inspires. 
Light  fills  the  banners 


87 


Light  tips  the  poles, 

The   thrilled   Stars   and   Stripes 

Slowly  unrolls. 

Doom  of  the  nations, 
Doom  of  the  brave. 
Now  it  breaks  o'er  us, 
War's  bitter  wave; 
But  we  shall  hold  us 
Face  toward  the  light.  .  .  . 
We  have  enrolled  us 
Now  for  the  fight! 


THE   MEANING 

PEACE  is  not  small  white  flowers 
Shining  on  a  lawn. 
Peace  is  not  youths  and  maidens  wedded  in  their  beauty. 
Peace  is  not  silver  sandals  of  a  stainless  dawn. 
Peace  is  the  calm  acceptance  of  heroic  duty. 

War  is  not  bloody  standards  hung  with  crape. 
War  is  not  murdered  men  and  women's  sorrow. 
War,  for  our  hearts  and  hands,  is  but  a  Shape, 
That  once  destroyed,  leaves  ghost-less  the  tomorrow. 


88 


THE    MARCHING  FAITH 

I  HAVE  seen  the  men  go  marching, 
Marching  away  from  life; 
Away  from  love  and  children 
Into  a  bitter  strife. 
I  have  seen  the  men  go  marching 
With  strange  high  courage  shod — 
The  old,  old  way  of  Crusaders 
Men  who  believe  in  God. 

Brown  eyes,  blue  eyes,  grey  eyes, 
Swing  of  the  Highland  kilt, 
Shoulders  of  English  lordling, 
Slight  form  Eastern  built, 
Chin  of  a  New  York  lawyer, 
Head  of  a  happy  Greek. 
I  have  seen  the  men  go  marching, 
And  I  know  the  thing  they  seek. 

I  have  seen  the  men  go  marching, 

And  I  have  no  word  to  say; 

They  have  read  their  hearts  more  truly 

Than  I  in  my  wistful  way. 

They  sprang  to.  an  instinct  Action, 

Though  they  scorned  the  path  they  trod. 

Gold  help  us!  we  must  follow — 

Men  who  go  forth  for  God. 


Brown  eyes,  blue  eyes,  grey  eyes, 
Eyes  that  have  laughed  with  love, 
Eyes  that  have  glowed  with  music, 
Indian  eyes  that  rove, 
Jaw  of  a  tall  Italian, 
Teeth  of  the  French  Touraine, 
Faces  full  of  the  tide  of  life, 
That  will  not  come  back  again. 

I  have  seen  the  men  go  marching, 
And  I  know  what  I  must  do: — 
Never  to  play  them  weak  or  false 
Though  the  news  be  false  or  true ; 
Whatever  the  Great  Endeavor 
For  body  or  brain  or  pen, 
I  must  be  true  forever 
To  the  faith  of  the  Marching  Men ! 


90 


HOME    COMING 

•"They  will  fight  until  the  stolen  and  lost  and  scattered 
children  return  home." 

T'WILL  be  a  great  day  for  the  Children, 
The  lost  and  scattered  Children, 
When  they  come  home ! 
I  can  see  now  the  little  faces  smiling, 
Hear  broken  words,  see  baby  hands  beguiling, 
And  watch  the  dear  processions  straggled  filing, 
When  the  Children  come. 

In  all  the  crushed,  insulted,  stricken  households, 

In  all  the  bare  and  desecrated  households 

There  will  be  joy. 

Mothers  will  rouse  them  from  their  haunted  sorrow, 

Because  their  love  has  given  the  Tomorrow 

A  pledge,  on  which  posterity  may  borrow 

From  girl  and  boy. 

Mothers  will  rouse  them  from  their  stricken  anguish, 

Daring  to  face  the  future  in  their  anguish, 

Because  the  Children  say, 

"We  have  no  part  in  all  the  hopeless  killing; 

We  are  your  sacrament,  your  holy  willing; 

We  are  your  cups  for  the  glad,  new  wine-filling 

Of  a  new  Day." 

T'will  be  a  great  day  for  the  Future, 
The  dim  and  broken  Future, 

91 


When  the  Children  come! 

They  will  bring  back  some  clean,  unlooted  treasure; 
New  hope  in  life,  of  love  a  higher  measure; 
Unselfish  aim,  and  purer,  keener,  pleasure 
When  they  come  home. 

I  see  them  dazed,  the  little  bare  feet  stumbling; 

I  see  them  hasten,  stunned,  confused,  and  stumbling — 

Yet  unafraid. 

For  one  great  People  comes  to  bring  them  gladness; 

To  take  away  the  pitiful  child-sadness; 

To  heal  the  infant  pain  and  baby  madness — 

Another  People  made. 

On  one  side  wait  the  agonizing  mothers, 

The  tearless,  outraged,  consecrated  mothers, 

To  see  them  come ; 

The  other  side  is  lined  with  silent  fathers, 

Dead,  mutilated,  tortured,  murdered  fathers, 

Sacred,  elect,  regenerated  fathers, 

Who  died  for  Home. 

And  with  them  march  the  gay  and  ready  Strangers, 

The  sunny,  stern  Americans,  the  Strangers, 

Who  bid  them  come. 

Yea,  though  my  eyes  be  blind  with  bitter  crying, 

Yet  do  I  count  worth  while  the  fearful  dying; 

When  dead  men  on  a  hundred  red  fields  lying 

Send  the  children — Home! 


•Editorial  Leader  of  New  York  Times,  July  21st,  1917. 
92 


FOR   OUR    MEN 

LET  us  keep  home  safe  for  them — 
Fires,  laughter  and  song, 
The  curtains  close,  the  beds  all  smooth  and  white, 
The  leisure  long. 

Let  us  make  good  things  for  them — 
Sweet  meats  and  bright  conserves, 
Nourishing  breads  and  all  the  dear  delights 
Hunger  deserves. 

Let  us  lift  high  God  for  them, 

And  like  tall  candles  hold 

The  straight  white  lights  that  in  the  trench  they  knew- 

Were  more  than  gold. 

Let  us  grow  up  for  them, 
And  hold  us  to  impassioned  lofty  thought — 
So  they  shall  never  come  to  be  ashamed 
Of  that  for  which  they  fought. 

Let  us  all  work  hard  for  them — 
For  such  as  live  and  come  to  us  once  more; 
To  those  that  do  not  come.    Ah !  for  those  men — 
Passionate  love  and  honor,  evermore! 


93 


WORLD  FLOWER 

ON  the  Stem  of  the  World 
A  flower  hangs  blighted, 
Flower  that  plighted 
Its  scarlet,  uncurled, 
To  Pageant  of  Kings 
And  war-garlandings 
And  banners  unfurled. 

On  the  Stalk  of  the  World 
That  flower  hangs  broken, 
Gold  pollen-token, 
Nothingward  hurled. 
Withered  its  fineness 
Its  perfumed  divineness, 
Petals  far  whirled ! 

On  the  Branch  of  the  World, 

Bud  of  tomorrow, 

Watered  by  sorrow, 

Holds,  all  impearled, 

Blossom  increase, 

Petals  of  peace 

In  sunlight  whorled. 

Ye,  who  walk  doubting, 
Care  for  this  Flower! 

94 


Not  yet  its  hour, 

In  all  the  shouting.  .  .  . 

Only,  soft  hid  in  the  stamens,  is  lying 

Pollen  of  souls  that  dared  all  the  dying. 

They  gave  the  seed.     Wet  from  our  crying 

Blooms  the  New  World. 

EPOCH,    1914 

MORNING  broke  on  Fecamp  shore. 
The  sun  rose  from  the  sea. 
Along  the  stone  digue,  wooden  shoes 
Clattered  busily, 

And  one  glad,  little  Norman  voice 
Carolled,  "Sans  Souci." 
No  care!  no  care!     Tra-lal-la-la!" 
The  child's  glad  voice  sang  on ; 
A  red-capped  figure  crossed  the  digue 
To  where  the  great  boats  swung 
At  peaceful  anchor,  with  their  nets 
Spread  azure  in  the  sun. 

Evening  came  to  the  little  town 

Where  white  cliffs  wall  the  sea. 

A  dark  bell  rang,  "To  arms!     To  arms!" 

The  women  on  the  quay 

Choked  back  the  tears,  when  Jean  and  Pierre 

Marched  forth  gallantly. 

95 


And  then  no  lift  of  little  voice 

Singing,  "Sans  Souci." 

"Black  care,  Black  care  for  home  and  hearth!" 

For  children  needing  bread! 

Oh!  the  men's  faces!     Oh!  their  eyes, 

That  would  be  cold  and  dead 

Ere  the  new  moon,  all  pitiless 

And  smiling  at  her  dreams, 

Took  her  strange  way  of  battlefields 

And  bloody  battle-streams. 

The  ripe  grain  dies  on  Fecamp  hills. 

Sails  wither  at  the  quay. 

Old  people  totter  to  the  digue, 

And  shiver  ceaselessly, 

And  in  the  pallid  Gothic  church 

The  dead  and  wounded  see 

To  it  that  no  Norman  voice 

Carols  "Sans  Souci." 

Deep  care,  deep  care,  for  us  who  try 

To  save  and  clothe  and  feed! 

Men  taunt  us  for  our  dream  of  Peace 

Our  hope  of  better  breed! 

Courage!    Let  faith  fight  down  the  years 

Oh!  let  our  battle  be, 

That  the  world's  children  some  day  sing 

Another,  "Sans  Souci!" 


96 


TO    AMERICANS 

SOOTH,  Citizens!   there  are  few  hours  to  dawn 
Of  a   red  day  and  black  gun-horrored  night. 
The  cities  sleep  not  soundly  mid,  their  spawn 
Of  golden-balled   and   silver-webbed   light. 
Tomorrow  breaks  the  rancor  and  the  spite — 
To  try  our  souls  and  test  our  bodies'  brawn. 

Americans!     How  stand  we?     Does  the  Dream 

Still  hold?     Once  more  the  robust  States  declare 

Against  the  Wrong,  their  Right.     Where  millions  teem, 

Curious,  thoughtful,  fateful,  do  we  share 

The  same  proud  purpose  to  defend  the  Scheme, 

Under  the  flag  our  lofty  standards  bear? 

Americans!     Look  we  with  fearless  eyes 
Loyalty?     Truth?     Self-sacrifice?     For  Her, 
Our  Country,  now  enringed  by  foreign  spies, 
Will  our  set  faces  prove  our  calibre — 
Our  Destiny  all  penalties  incur, 
So  that  we  show  us  pledged  and  patriot-wise. 

Countrymen!     Rise,  and  let  your  ranks  be  formed 
For  War,  or  Peace  in  solid  moveless  Race! 
We  are  not  aliens,  who  for  plunder  swarmed 
To  cover  neath  the  glorious  Freedom-Face. 
We  are  Souls,  standing  in  our  rightful  place, 
Impregnable,  unswerving,  unalarmed. 

97 


Brothers!  defend  the  gates!     Upon  us  lowers 
Portentously  the  brooding  Europe  pall. 
Until  it  comes,  the  fateful  hour  of  hours, 
When  our  World-Dream  must  either  stand  or  fall- 
Arm  ye  with  Loyalty! — Hark,  hear  the  call! 
Democracy  still  trumpets  on  the  towers! 

PENMARCH— BRITTANY 

At  the  time  of  the  "Pardon,"  1914. 

THE  Penmarch  roads   are   sandy  white ; 
By  the  old  church  the  blue  nets  dry, 
Stretched   to   the    sea.     The    poppies   bright, 
Tremulous  scarlet  splashes  high 
On  tawny  dunes.     Small  wooden  shoes, 
Stiff  snowy  caps  and  ribbon  hues 
Go  clattering  to  the  market  place. 
'Tis  Pardon-day  by  Maries'  Grace, 
(And  little  Bretons  form  a  ring, 
And  pause  to  hear  a  Lady  sing.) 

What  does  she  sing,  this  Lady,  who 
Is  like  embodied  song,  her  eyes, 
Clear  with  the  light  of  faith  where  through 
Looks  sweetness  of  her  soul's  surmise? 
What  are  the  words  she  sings,  her  smile 
So  Mother-merry?     What  the  wile 
That  draws  the  small  coifs  nearer,  near, 
And  charms  away  the  peasant  fear 

98 


(Shy  little  Bretons  keep  their  ring, 
And  stay  to  hear  the  Lady  sing.) 

Blue  sky  is  part,  blue   sea   is  part; 
Flax,  wheat,   and   poppies  fill  the   strain; 
Her  wide  eyes  deepen  with  her  art 
Like  gentian  flowers  after  rain. 
'Tis  World-Dream  in  her  simple  lay — 
Adventure,  Faith,  and  Love  and  Play. 
No  wonder  wooden  shoes  keep  time 
To  magic  of  her  lilting  rythm. 
(Gay  little  Bretons  hold  their  ring, 
Shouting   the   Stranger-Lady,    "Sing!") 

That  was  one  summer.     Now  a  dirge 
Breaks  on  that  coast  in  bitter  wail, 
And  news  told  by  the  ocean  surge 
Makes  Breton-maids  and  mothers  quail. 
O  holy  Fires  of  fisher-lights, 
Gleam  out  no  more  on  Pardon  nights! 
The  great  red   sails  hang  listless,  torn 
The  empty  blue  nets  trail  forlorn. 
And  yet  I  think  that  little  feet 
Sometimes  on  Penmarch  beaches  meet, 
And  Penmarch  children  cease  their  play 
To  talk  of  how  She  sang  that  day, 
And  that  once  more  a  happy  ring 
Is  formed  to  hear  a  Lady  sing! 

99 


TO    AN    AMERICAN    SOLDIER    GOING    INTO 
ACTION 

France,  August,  1918. 

TODAY'S  your  turn  to  take  the  road  of  fire ; 
Your  turn  to  rally  at  the  gates  of  hell; 
Your  turn  for  steel  and  gas  and  blood  and  mire, 
In  shell-holes  and  through  mazes  of  barbed  wire, 
Where  men  before  you  fought  and  bled  and  fell. 

And  we  go  with  you,  we,  who  know  your  face — 
Its  dear  and  merry  shining,  and  intent; 
Follow  you  blindly  to  this  testing  place, 
Breathless,  with  you   at  this,  the  ultimate   pace 
Your  fleet  strong  spirit  takes  for  its  ascent. 

Whatever  agony  is  yours  is  ours, 
Whatever  thing  the  soul  of  you  endures; 
We  are  the  witness  of  your  manhood's  powers; 
Not  one  of  us  who  has  your  measure  cowers — 
What  we  know  of  you  all  our  thought  insures. 

Go  you,  then,  to  the  Front!     May  God  be  good! 
Whatever  face  you  raise  to  Him  will  be 
The  face  of  one,  who  for  our  Hope  has  stood, 
Manly  and   resolute,  whose   spirit  would 
Be  at  the  Front,  and  elsewhere  could  not  be ! 


100 


>  :>•>>   > 


■  i  ■ 


RESURGENCE 
To  C.  L.  B. 

DOWN  the  glad  morning  lane  a  lucent  veil 
Of  dogwood  wavers  like  a  windblown  screen 
Revealing  vistas  lit  by  golden  trail 
Of  netted   water-brooks   that   intervene 
Where  ferns  their  dewy  plumage  spread  and  preen; 
Soft,  myriad  breaths  of  budding  boughs  exhale 
On  the  spring  world ;  a  buoyant  path  of  green 
Makes  sign  by  leaf  and  foliate  flower-grail 
Of  exquisite  re-capture  of  the  frail 
Fresh  renascence  of  all  that  fair  has  been. 
Nature  survives.    Lift  then  the  haggard  eyes 
That  watch  Life  on  its  dark  death-shuttled  loom! 
Are  ours  the  only  forms  that  may  not  rise 
Out  of  the  Dark  to  unfrustrated  bloom? 
Nay — burst  we  forth  out  of  the  moment's  doom, 
Instinct  toward   suns  of  flowering  destinies, 
Lifting  glad  lips  to  deep  full-breasted  skies, 
Branching  like  stars  where   radiant  dreams   resume. 

GARDEN    ADVENTURES 

No.   i — Aerial. 

T^VOWN  the  long  garden   path  the  message  came, 
*^    Borne  by  the  breeze  in  a  soft,  wayward  speed; 
"My  petals  spread,  soft  burns  my  blossom-flame, 

101 


Yet  do  I  know  defeat  and  barren  shame; 
Dost  thou  then  fail  me  in  my  flower-need?" 

A  lily-bell  hung  in  her  curving  spire; 

Sweet  peas  on  pools  of  morning  air  set  sail ; 

Womanly  roses  opened ;  did  this  fire, 

This  wordless  furthering  of  deep  desire 

Waft  from  their  midst  down  to  the  meadow-rail? 

Who  took  the  message?     Did  the  iris  there, 
Masculine,  bold,  defy  the  grasses'  thralls. 
Mid  the  white  lamps  of  daisies  did  one  flare 
Concentrate  light?     Did  a  coarse  mallow  dare 
To  think  that  it  might  answer  to  the  call? 

Up  the  blue  garden  air  a  winged  ship, 
Humming  with  hurry,  takes  its  zig-zag  way, 
Hangs  for  a  second  where  the  poppies'  tip 
Shoots  to  the  hare-bells,  larkspurs,  but  to  slip 
Impatiently  from  honeyed  bud  and  spray. 

Then  ardent  pansies  warmer  purple  glow; 
Then  poppies  sigh  for  languor.     Do  they  see 
The  yellow  tulip  near  them  suddenly  grow 
Quivering,  tremulous?     Does  the  tulip  know 
What  meadow-flower  sent  the  pollen-bee? 

No.  2 — Invasion. 

In  wooded  depths  the  lilies  grew, 
Nunlike  in  canopies  of  green, 
Hanging  white  bells  of  paladin 

102 


In  Gothic  ferns  beneath  the  yew — 
A  sanctuary,  with  the  dew 
Telling  its  beads  by  leafy  screen. 

And  where  the  dandelion  ranks, 

Ranged  Persian  bright  each  blazing  shield, 

Was  far  away  in  sedgy  field — 

Too  dense  with  spears  of  thistle  hordes 

To  menace  distant  lily  chords, 

Or  chapel  treasure  all  unsealed; 

And  all  day  nettle  airships  sail, 
And  on  the  moonlight  thistle  swords 
Leap  from  their  scabbards,  flashing  towards 
The  priestly  yew  that  guards  the  vale; 
Till  haughty  casqued  snowdorps  quail, 
And  violets  rush  borderwards. 

Alas!     By  stealth  th'  invader  came, 
Intrenched   near  lily  convents,  where 
A  startled  fragrance  fills  the  air. 
Green  cells  are  pierced  by  nettle  spike, 
And  dandelions,  shield  and  pike 
Ravish  white  bells  that  rang  to  prayer! 

No.  3 — Diplomats 

Archippus,  ambassador 

To  the  poppy  emperor, 

Enters  with  his  wings  extended, 

Orange,  black  and  samite  blended, 

103 


Bows  o'er  cups  of  columbines, 
And  at  taste  of  royal  wines 
Flashes  spangled  semaphore 
Message — "To  the  end  of  the  war." 

Philemon,  black,  green  and  pearl 
Wavers  to  syringa  whirl ; 
Lightly  shod,  his  errant  feet 
Win  the  white  pavilions  sweet; 
As  he  flits  to  salvia  cells, 
Dipping  into  ruby  wells 
His  antennae,  as  he  goes 
Wig-wag — "Beauty  has  no  foes." 

Then  bold  Turnus,  amber-fanned, 
Flutters  to  the  brilliant  band ; 
He  confers  with  larkspur  sages, 
Loiters  with  the  pansy  pages, 
Tells  his  heraldry  and  crest 
To  the  rose's  burning  breast; 
Soon  doth  Turnus  flutter  free, 
Wing-endorsing   "Liberty." 

Protoparce,  grey  and  blunt, 
Enters  on  his  stealthy  hunt; 
Tongue  protuding  from  his  head, 
Heavy  wings  and  brutal  tread, 
Bulging  eyes  and  savage  thirst, 
Crime's  nocturnal  deed  he  durst; 
See  him  prowling,  full  of  schemes, 

104 


Subtle  midst  the  flower-dreams! 
Valiant  tulips,  trust  no  more! 
Close  your  helmets.     This  is  war! 

No.  4 — Spies 

Ask  me  no  questions.     Fireflies  last  night 
Went  over  all  the  ground  with  searching  light, 
And   only   found   that,   where   the   peony-head 
Hung  erstwhile  white,  'tis  now  disguised  in  red. 

Tell  me  not  why.     I  only  know  that  since 
I  paused  at  gaze  beneath  the  flowering  quince, 
A  group  of  tents,  some  warlike  grey,  some  white 
Cover  the  ground,   pitched   in   a  single  night. 

No  explanation  gives  me  peace  of  mind, 
When  long  battalioned  caravans  I  find 
Crossing  my  garden  walk;  and  when  I  see 
Under-ground  trenches  grow  unceasingly. 

Give  me  no   reasons  for  squat  forms  that  pass 

Lurking  at  twilight  near  the  ribbon  grass. 

Only  the  owl  and  I  our  vigil  keep, 

With,  "Who  goes  there?"     While  flower  kingdoms  sleep. 

No  5 — Rendezvous 

Like  a  sea-flower,  seen  through  waves  of  night, 
She  spreads  illumined   petals,  and  her  white 
Mystical  raying  disk  spills  frankincense 
From  her  stored  sweet  and  balmy  opulence. 

105 


Perfume  of  honey-flowers  and  purpled  vines, 
Odors  of  Eastern  wood  and  Tuscan  wines, 
Sweetness  compressed,  smell  of  all  blossoms  blent, 
Breath  of  all  lilies  in  one  lily's  scent. 

What  secret  doth  she  hold?    What  visions  stir 
At  the  slow  calm  awakening  of  her? 
Lo!     To  the  night  is  all  her  beauty  spread, 
And  to  the  encircling  dark  she  leans  her  head. 

Then,  who  can  tell  what  fragrant  message  strays 
O'er  dreaming  trees  and  sleeping,  leafy  ways? 
To  what  green  tent  her  sighing  languors  steal? 
What  thrilled   suspense  of  waiting  she   doth  feel? 

Till — Soft!     A  Spirit  of  dim-waving  wings 

Floats  from  his  moonlit  forest  wanderings, 

And  by  enchantment  led,  there  plights  his  troth 

To  the  night's  Queen,  a  dew-crowned,  milk-white  Moth. 

Now,  while  the  garden  drowses,  and  the  cool 
Of  passing  midnight  deepens  in  the  pool, 
While  all  the  flowers  hang  their  heads,  asleep — 
Mysterious  tryst  two  royal  lovers  keep. 

The  world  rolls  on ;  its  load  of  hearts  grown  old ; 
And  all  the  simple  forms  and  feasts  are  cold. 
But  though  men  mock  Love's  slowly  fading  wraith, 
The  Forest  knows, — the  flowers  keep  their  Faith. 

106 


CAMOUFLAGE 

HERE  is  the  waving  river  line,  and  here 
A  rail-road  made 
(And  here  float  lilies  white  as  those  that  were 
Where  Marsyas  played.) 

The  thrilling  sky  is  wild  with  winged  planes 
For  air  ship  raid 

(Yet — still  steals  up  the  hidden  cirrus  lanes 
The  Huntress  Maid!) 

The  country  road  is  gashed  with  lurid  signs. 
Of  commerce-gods: 

(Yet  bitter-sweet  and  seeding  eglantines 
Hang  votive  pods!) 

The  man  who  walks  in  front  of  me  to  work 
Has  pointed  ears 

(He  speaks  with  modern  emphasis  and  jerk 
So  it  appears)  — 

But  where  he  toils  the  chimneys  range  their  pipes 
In  Syrinx  form 

(Who  knows  what  midnight  Dancing?  or  what  types 
Of  dancers  swarm?) 

Ah!  life  is  practical,  the  Moderns  say 

No  one  escapes " 

(Ye  Gods,  Who  is  that  smiling  such  a  way 
Among  the  grapes?) 

107 


HOME-SICK 

HE  sees  the  white  moon  climb  the  city  skies, 
Far  over  rank,  black   roofs  and  balconies, 
And  with  her  spectral  radiance  anoint 
The  slender  lance  of  every  steeple  point. 

Beneath  his  gaze,  the  brilliant  streets  converge, 
And  through  the  avenues  the  people  surge. 
Behind  him  are  his  walls  where,  numb  and  old 
His  books  and  pictures  seem  aloof  and  cold. 

Below,  he  hears  the  gong  and  shout  and  call ; 
Sees  the  blank  grief  of  many  a  plastered  wall, 
And  bows  himself  upon  the  window  sill, 
In  a  communion  motionless  and  still. 

He  leaves  the  temples  where  the  merchants  trade, 
Leaves  bright  bazaar  and  marble  collanade, 
And  hand  and  hand  with  the  white  moon  he  strays 
Away  to  leafy  lanes  and  country  ways. 

He  vizualizes  green  of  plashy  mead 
Of  kneedeep  grass,  where  lowing  cattle  feed, 
Of  orchard  slope,  scalloped  with  rosy  bloom 
And  purple  lilacs  bursting  into  plume. 

Electric  beads  may  dot  the  cities  plain, 
But  in  his  heart  old  candles  flare  again ; 
Old  doors  stand  open,  and  beside  old  stiles 
He  leans,  and  listens  as  in  other  whiles. 

108 


So  dreams;  so  wanders  back  to  youth  and  home, 
To  swelling  farms,  to  rich  hill-breasted  loam; 
So  hand  in  hand  with  the  young  moon  he  strays 
Out  of  the  city  gates  to  the  old  days. 


THE    INTERPRETER 

LAST    night    I    heard    Masefield, 
Heard  that  voice  cold   as  a  moonlit  tomb 
Reading  old   plays  and  masques 
And   gipsy  drama  of  old   England. 

I  saw  strange  eyes  flickering — sad, 
Set  in  a  face  recording  vigils, 
Moody,  unfellowed  prowlings 
Vague  contemplations   and   wanderings. 

I  saw  his  face,  dream-magnetic, 

Pale,  withheld,  until  he  told 

Stories  as  odd  as  coins  in  a  sailor's  chest; 

Then  mischief,  like  leaves  danced  on  his  brow, 

And  a  smile  like  water  shook  on  his  face. 

I  heard  the  grind  of  creaking  anchor  chains 
Felt  ropes  bruise,  and  felt  the  capstan  pull, 
Saw  driven  slanting  masts,  and  saw  the  hoops 
Slink  as  some  halliard  parted,  and  was  caught. 

109 


I  heard  dead  seamen's  lips 
Recounting  heaps  of  gold  in  sunken  ships; 
I  saw  the  dumb  eyes  of  pathetic  women, 
Horribly  treated  by  wine-frenzied  brutes. 

Then  as  the  lonely,  chanting,  stifled  voice 
Droned  on,  I  saw  heart-breaking  Peace, 
Green  happy  hedges,  dreaming  crofts  and  farms, 
England — before  the  War! 

Last  night  I  heard  Masefield. 
He  stood  downcast  on  a  little  platform, 
While  I  careened,  helm  up,  full  canvassed 
Close-hauled  on  happy  seas. 

He  stood  limply  on  a  little  platform 
World-blind  before  the  rows  of  set,  still,  faces, 
Absorbed  in  his  faith  of  one  maternal  word 
"Beauty." 


110 


KLEPHTIC 

"It  would  be  strange  if  with  such  ample  survival  of 
the  ancient  polytheism  in  modern  law  there  were  no 
reminiscence  of  the  Fauns,  the  Satyrs,  the  Pans  of  the 
olden  world." — Rennell  Rodd. 

FAR  in  the  mountains, 
The   mountains  of   Greece, 
The  cone  fires  burn, 
Mid  the  pines  and  rocks, 
And  the  tall  shepherds  wear 
The  curly  white  fleece, 
And  a  man,  with  a  beard, 
Like  a  horse's  mane, 
Plays   a   small   pipe, 
A  carved  pipe, 

Till  the  goats  come  straggling  in, 
And  the  bees  come  drowsing  by, 
And  the  olives  come  dropping  down; 
And  he  will  be  playing  like  that, 
And  they  will  be  coming  like  that, 
Long  after  our  solemn  mummings  cease 
In  the  mountains,  the  mountains  of  Greece. 

Far   in   the  mountains, 
The  mountains  of  Greece, 
The  values  are  strange — 

111 


The  worth  of  a  tree, 

The  strength  of  a  rock, 

The  health  of  a  sheep, 

The  length  of  a  brook, 

The  dip  of  a  bird, 

The  wisdom  of  mules. 

They  will  offer  you  grapes, 

Or  a  horn-spoon  of  curd, 

Or  wine  in  a  cup, 

Or  honey  and  bread ; 

And  they  will  keep  all  these  values, 

These  dear  simple  values 

Long  after  our  silly  values  cease, 

In  the  mountains,  the  mountains  of  Greece. 

In  the  mountains,  the  mountains  of  Greece 

They  lie  in  a  cave, 

And   hark   to   wood-sounds, 

Perhaps  cross   themselves, 

Saying,  aghast! 

"There  be  wild  things, 

Hidden  things,  dread  things, 

Strange  things,  weird  things,  great  things." 

(They  quake,  and  are  not  very  brave,) 

But  when  they  sleep  and  dream, 

They  dream  as  far  as  they  please. 

As  grand  and  great  as  they  please — 

Of  miles  of  red-fezzed  Turks 

112 


Done  to  death  by  one  Greek, 
Of  clouds  that  turn   into  men, 
Of  fountains  with  golden   rain, 
Of  seas  and  golden  ships, 
Of  reveling  women   and  maids, 
And  hosts  of  little  boys 
Dressed  in  skins  of  fur, 
Dancing  and  playing  pipes; 

And  of  Someone  very  strange, 
With  horns  perhaps,  but  a  smile, 
A  smile  like  hot  sweet  fire — 
And  they  will  be  dreaming  like  that, 
And  thinking  like  that, 
Long  after  our  stupid  teachings  are  dead. 
Yea— Yea— Yea- 
Long  after  we  are  dead, 
In  the  mountains, 
The  mountains  of  Greece. 


113 


AT   THE    FEAST   OF   LIFE 

YOU,  who  sit  opposite  and  move  your  lips, 
And  toy  with  silver  dish  and  graceful  spoon, 
And  touch  your  wine-glass  with  reluctant  sips — 
Why  do  you  pause,  for  it  is  afternoon. 
What  are  your  thoughts,  that  they  should  draw  a  mist 
Before  your  sweet  eyes,  as  the  hours  creep? 
While  others  sing,  and  laugh  and  keep  the  feast, 
A  fast  you  keep. 

Where  dwells  who  now  should  come  and  feast  with  you? 
Where  fares  he,  years  off — leagues  off?  Thirsts  and  prays 
For  the  one  sign  to  make  his  life  come  true? 
For  the  one  clue  to  lead  him  to  your  ways? 
Will  the  feast  last  till  he  shall  gain  the  halls? 
Will  fruits  and  wines  still  glow,  will  roses  wait? 
What  if,  in  vain  your  tender  name  he  calls — 
Entering  late? 

If  he  should  fail,  I  see  you  still  serene, 
Leaving  the  tables  where  the  garlands  die, 
Passing  the  fountained  courts  that  intervene 
To  the  bright  halls  to  bid  the  guests  good-bye. 
O,  Proud !     O,  Pure !     Where  weary  stairs  ascend 
I  see  you  toil ;  your  pallid  candle  shakes ; 
The  wan  rose  at  your  bosom,  as  you  bend, 
Drops — faded  flakes. 

114 


DEATH   WITHIN    DEATH 

THOU  wilt  not  smite  him,  Israfel? 
Prone  on  his  little  couch  he  lies, 
With  the  death-shadow  in  his  eyes. 
He  thirsts,  for  what,  I  cannot  tell. 
Thou  wilt  not  smite  him,   Israfel? 

Thou  must  not  smite  him,  Israfel. 
For  all  his  race  throbs  in  his  fame, 
The  sole  hope  of  a  noble  name; 
That  small  hand  like  a  tinted  shell 
Holds  high  tradition,  Israfel. 

Thou  canst  not  smite  him,  Israfel. 
He  turns  his  asking  eyes  on  me. 
I  am  his  sun  and  moon  and  sea ; 
My  life  tides  in  his  life-tides  swell. 
Thou  canst  not  smite  him,  Israfel. 

Since  thou  hast  smitten,  Israfel, 
Know  this,  thy  sword  so  bitter  keen 
Destroys   a   thing   that  might  have   been; 
Yet,  smiting  him,  it  was  as  well 
To  kill  my  Soul,  thou  Israfel! 


115 


AT   THE    FLOWER-SHOW 

A  ROSY  haze  misted  the  air,  perfume 
Of  flower-flesh,  like  flesh  of  white  younglings, 
Fresh  from  a  cool  brook-bathing;  gorse  and  broom, 
Spotted  hibiscus,  purple  cyclamen-wings. 
Nimbus  and  halo  floated  in  dewy  gloom; 
Quirled  chaliced   orchids,   jasmine's  jewelled   strings 
Sprayed  in  warm  aisles,  in  odorous  room  on  room. 

So  quietly  the  human  throng  moved  by, 

It  had  seemed  tranced,  and  even  the  dullest  face 

Was  wistful,  pensive,  reverent  of  eye 

Wandering  the  trellised  paths  with  dreamy  pace; 

And  there  were  soft  communings,  whispers  shy — 

Lovers  at  ease,  seeing  the  leaves  embrace. 

Thus  was  it  that  I  witnessed  rivalry, 

And   rose-lipped   envy  in   this  blossom  place. 

"  We  are  the  most  like  you,"  the  young  girls  said. 
"Our  bodies  satin  smooth  have  vernal  dowers; 
Our  hair  gleams  gold,  our  cheeks  are  sunshine  fed; 
Like  bud  and  calyx  are  our  hidden  powers." 
Then  was  I,  listening,  rare  astonished, 
Hearing  disclaimer  from  the  iris  towers, 
Seeing  demure,  bright  rose  and  lily  head. 
"You  are  not  very  like  us"  sighed  the  flowers. 


U6 


Then  there  came  women  made  of  night  and  stars, 

Women  of  dusky  eye  and  cirrus  tress 

From  whom  men  rush  to  wreckage  and  to  wars, 

Frenzied   of  their  inscrutable   caress. 

"We  are  like  you,"  they  said,  "competitors 

For  admiration;  yea,  in  perfumed  bowers" 

Negation   from  green-hooded   councilors, 

"You  are  not  like  us,"  soft  condemned  the  flowers. 

And  then  there  drifted  by  hard  graceless  forms, 
Dull,  rayless  eyes,  that  looked,  yet  had  no  sense 
Of  umbelled  mysteries,  of  disks,  and  norms 
Of  myriad  seed-cells,  witherings  recompense ; 
Unapprehending,  they,  of  shining  swarms, 
Of  pollen  flight  from  downcast  petal  showers, 
Nor  guessed  the  Spell   in   seed-pod  multiforms. 
"These  surely  are  not  like  us"  breathed  the  flowers. 

Then  came  an  old  woman,  worn  and  sorrow-wise, 
Creeping  in  slow  persistance  like  a  vine; 
And  there  were  wells  of  light  within  her  eyes; 
Her  hair  was  milk-weed  white.     By  every  sign 
Of  age,  dried  stalk  of  past  fecundities, 
She  was  the  silvern  wraith  of  fair  Design. 
"Yea,  richly  did  I  spend  Life's  vivid  hours; 
Mine  has  been  Love  and   many  children  mine." 
"Verily,  Sweet,  thou'rt  like  us,"  smiled  the  flowers! 


117 


TALISMANS 

JUST  now  the  Mother  left  me,  and  I  stand 
Holding  her  trove,  a  sheaf  of  shining  curl — 
All  that  is  left  of  "Once  a  little  girl," 
Alive  and  warm  and  glowing  in  my  hand. 

Like  to  a  Seer  gazing  into  space, 
I  muse  upon  this  silken  treasure,  where 
The  coiled  lights  quicken,  and  I  see  the  fair 
Woman-ward  leaning  of  a  childish  face. 

I  see  that  face  gaze  down  the  crowded  years, 
Quite  unamazed,  unchanged  through  all  the  stir 
To  find  the  deep  maternal  heart  of  Her, 
Who  gazes  back  all  undeterred  by  tears. 

I  see  the  child  eyes  give  their  radiant  speech 

Once  more  to  mother-eyes  that  never  failed; 

I  see  a  heart  that  never  yet  has  quailed 

Answer  those  eyes  over  the  long  years'  reach.  .  .  . 

The  Winter  sun  goes  down ;  quick  chills  the  air 
Outside  my  window.   .  .   .  While  the  West  grows  old, 
I  stand  in  Sanctuary,  for  I  hold 
Undying  Faith,  enshrined  in  golden  hair. 


118 


SUBLIMINAL 

I  SHOULD  like  to  be  very  lonely  indeed- 
Much  lonlier  than  I  am; 
With  humbleness,   like  the  humbleness  of  a   weed, 
And  simplicity  like  the  sun,  and  no  other  need 
But  to  hold  me  free  of  pose  and  pretence  and  sham. 

And  then  I  should  like  to  think  such  silent  things, 

As  only  the  flowers  think; 

I  should  want  the  whole  world  to  be  greenly  a  wall  of 

shine, 
And  I,  leaning  over,  swimming  in  dreams  of  mine, 
As  a  flower  floats  over  a  brink. 

I  should  like  to  be  very  lonely  indeed — 

So  the  world  would  draw  around  me, 

Like  a  green  cave  flower  lit,  echo  and  shadow  keyed, 

With  a  door  that  to  naught  but  a  path  of  clouds  would 

lead, 
Or  the  bed  in  a  blossoming  tree. 

And  then  I  would  pipe  my  thoughts  so  shyly  out, 

And  watch  them  dance,  dryad  dressed; 

I  would  talk  to  a  bit  of  moss  or  an  acorn  sprout; 

I  should  drink  all  the  stars  and  follow  the  darkness  out, 

And  bathe  in  the  Sea  of  the  West! 


119 


THE   WALLED    CITY 

HERE  is  the  mass,  you  see  it  astray  and  astruggle, 
Deafened  with  noise,  pushing  and  jestling  along; 
Pleasure  and  envy  and  greed,  in  a  feverish  juggle, 
Outside  the  City  of  Song. 

There    are   the    Vapid,   watching   their   hookah's    smoke- 
bubble  ; 
There  are  the  slothful,  drunk  at  the  wells  of  wrong; 
At  a  scarlet  booth  is  a  Gypsy  pleasing  the  rabble, 
Outside  the  City  of  Song. 

Here  are  the  credulous,  cheated  to  death  by  a  thimble; 
Here  are  the  hungry  stumbling  on  to  the  gong; 
Here  stands  a  lover  grasping  a  treacherous  symbol, 
Outside  the  City  of  Song. 

Whirl  of  pretense,  of  gilding,  of  tinsel,  of  glitter; 
Strange  that  its  patter  and  laughter  can  keep  up  so  long; 
Echo  on  echo  of  mocking  and  cat-call  and  twitter, 
Outside  the  City  of  Song. 

Long  is   the    road,   that   they   travel    and   know   not  the 

turning; 
Black  is  the  pit  at  the  end,  and  the  fear  and  the  wrong; 
But  bitterest,  blackest,  their  last  inescapable  yearning 
For  the  lost  City  of  Song. 

120 


While  in  its  courts,  where  the  fountains  leap  up  to  the 

zenith, 
Dreamers  and  poets  and  lovers  go  all  the  day  long, 
Dazzled,  and  raptured  with  pondering  all  that  it  meaneth, 
To  dwell  in  the  City  of  Song. 


121 


ON    LILY    STREET,    NANTUCKET 

ON  Lily  Street,  where  drowsy  crickets  hum, 
And  two  and  two  the  summer  lovers  come, 
Straying  so  happily  their  island  paths, 
Where    the    white   candle    flickers    at    a    low-hung   door, 
I  see  soft  hooded  figures  cross  a  bit  of  moor — 
Hurrying,  eager,  they — 
To  hear  you  play. 

Now  as  the  moonlight  slants  on  whitened  roof, 
And  old  New  England  still  gives  austere  proof 
Of  bygone  things  in  narrowed  window  glass, 
The  guests  sit  quiet  in  the  panelled  rooms 
Content  with  half  lights  and  half  tinted  glooms, 
Because  they  know  that  they — 
Shall  hear  you  play. 

And  I  who  lean  upon  the  leafy  sill 

Feel  moonlight  dreaming  change  to  vagrom  thrill, 

And  looking  forth  as  on  some  lantern  screen, 

See,  flitting  o'er  the  stark  old  house-wall  nigh, 

Soft  shadows  of  your  vivid  melody. 

So — in  an  eerie  way 

I  hear  you  play. 

Till,  on  the  house  wall  opposite  my  place 

I  see  wild  Carmen's  bright  poinsettia  face; 

I  see  Grieg's  "Day  break,"  streaming  up  the  sky. 

122 


Upon  the  old  Nantucket  houses  blank 

I  watch  Tannhouser's  Pilgrims  climb  in  solemn  rank, 

— Past  windows  grey — the  while  you  play. 

Long  on  the  bare  screen  grieves  the  "Butterfly." 

Then,  as  her  Oriental  sorrows  die, 

Forth  doth  the  "Earl  King"  ride; 

The  Schumann  "Warum"  drops  its  pensive  leaves, 

Macdowell's  "Sea"  its  toppling  billow  heaves, 

Chaminades,  "Dancing  Fay" 

Trips,  as  you  play. 

But  ere  your  noble  hands  have  given  their  gift 
Down  on  the  town,  the  bells  of  Curfew  drift, 
The  candle  gutters  at  the  low-hung  door. 
Yet,  see;  from  this  low  window  where  I  muse, 
All  Lily  Street  doth  spectrally  suffuse, 
Glimmers  each  tiny  pane. 
You  call  it  "moonlight,"  but  I  think  that  they 
The  old  Nantucketers,  long  passed  away 
Peer  forth  to  hear  you   play! 


123 


THE    "BLIND"    ROAD,    NANTUCKET 

IF  you  would  find 
Peace,  and  a  lightened  load, 
And  wells  of  delicate,  salt,  sweet-fern  air, 
And  tranquil  lines  around  you  every  where, 
Follow  the  "blind"  Rut  Road. 

It  leads  to   liberties  of  yellow  gorse, 

To  secret  heather  and  to  banks  of  bay; 

It  winds  along  the  ocean,  and  its  course 

Is  wet  with  wild  sea-spray. 

It  leads  along  the  swamps,  where  honey-ball 

Hangs  scented  globes,   where  clethra   scatters   sweet, 

By  holly  hedge,  where  pheasants  thread  the  tall 

Indigo  plant,  or  flying  sea-gulls  meet. 

It  leads  away  from  every  fret  and  jar, 
From  everything  that  hurts  and   stings  and  tries; 
Through  green  dwarf-pines,  and  hills  of  cinnebar, 
Marshaling  grasses  up  to  windswept  skies. 

If  you  would  find 

Rest  and  forgetfulness  and  all  things  new, 
Take  the  Rut  Road,  and  it  will  bring  to  you 
All  dear  forgotten  things,  things  you  see  through, 
But  that  this  road  holds  sacred,  being  "blind." 


124 


THE   END    OF   THE    SEASON— NANTUCKET 

THE  hotel  building  sees  its  doom,  aghast, 
And  all  its  windows  fix  in  sullen  stare, 
For  no  girl-voices  ring  on  sunset  air, 
And  no  bright-breasted  youth  goes   speeding   past. 
The  latticed  roses  and  the  phlox  have  cast 
Their  petals  upon  paths  where  lovers  dreamed, 
And  grey  old  streets,  where  gauzy  figures  streamed, 
Settle  to  lamp-lit  quietness  at  last. 

Yet  there  is  endless  romance  on  the  moor; 

The   hawks   o'er   wine-red    hollows    stretch   their   wings, 

Wild  ducks  loop  Autumnward  in  ranging  strings, 

And  swallows  balance  round  time-silvered  door; 

High  looms  the  bluff  in  castle   like  contour, 

And  wear  the  beach  the  full  white  breasts  of  dunes 

Nourish  sky-silence,  while  the   sea  communes 

With  shells,  a-quiver  to  the  foam's  allure. 


125 


MOVING   MILESTONES— NANTUCKET 

MIDNIGHT,  Black,  and  a  wild  sea  of  stars, 
A  gold-white  surf  of  stars  whose  sparkling  foam 
Breaks  into  waves  on  occult  ether  bars, 
Where  star-tides  have  their  deep  eternal  home. 
All  night  the  solemn  Wonder  sweeps  me  by; 
Arcturus,  Vega,   Spica  cross  the  sky 
On  one  fixed  path,  by  laws  that  do  not  change, 
Unfailing   while    all    other    laws    derange. 

Midnight,  black;   and  a  wild  horde  of  fears, 
The  brains  half-knowledge  and  the  hearts  fierce  pride 
Questions  me  cold  and  distant  to  my  tears ; 
Yet  on  my  thought  the  old  true  Visions  glide — 
Tenderness,  Truth,  Unselfishness;  their  lights 
Travel  the  wastes  and  glimmer  on  the  heights. 
So  may  I   keep  my  way,  whose  avatars 
Gave  me  a  path  that  leads  beyond  the  Stars. 


126 


SOURCE 

"If  Beauty  grows  old,  share  it  before  it  be  gone,  and  if 
it  abides,  why  fear  to  give  away  what  thou  dost  keep?" 

BY  the  Alpheus,  where  the  reeds  are  blown 
Aslant  by  winds  that  flick  the  tawny  current, 
There   runs  a   path  that  is  all  overgrown 
With  low  dwarf  oaks  and  many  a  vine  deterrent, 
Which  leads  past  grain  and  broad  mulberry  trees 
To  soft  Olympia's  cool  sanctities. 

There,  where  the  cypress  makes  a  trancelike  shade, 
White  pillars  gleam,  and  floors  of  old  mosaic, 
Hold  gemmy  moss  and  tender  bud  and  blade, 
In  hints  of  bygone  Pyrrhic  and  Trochic — 
In  those  fresh  petal  rhythms  which  Nature  keeps 
Like  poems  living  where  the  poet  sleeps. 

And  all  about  the  place  the  Games  go  on. 
The  buoyant  clouds  fly  swift  to  winged  races; 
One  tall  fir  gives  an  Ode  to  Marathon, 
And  down  the  temple  paths  young  sunlight  paces; 
And  that  strange  rare  Perfection,  that  is  Greece, 
Here  holds  its  happy  spell  of  calm  and  Peace. 


127 


Dreaming  Olympia,  whose  footpaths  take 
Their  secret  way  to  temple  and  by  column, 
Thou  art  so  far  away.     The  blue  daybreak 
Is  all  war-reddened  now,  and  the  Vow  solemn; 
Yet,  incandescent  in  those  aisles  of  pines, 
Thy  same  still  tranquil  beauty  grayly  shines. 

And  this  is  well,  for  after  all  the  pain, 

And  all  the  hate,  and  all  the  human  blunder, 

How  we  shall  need  to  bathe  us  once  again 

In  baths  of  pure  Greek  beauty!     Ah!  the  wonder 

Hellas  has  ever  held!     Shall  we  not  need 

That  wonder  to  rebuke  our  shame  and  greed? 

Sylvan  Olympia,  keep  the  untouched  dream 

For  years  to  come  and  for  a  noble  future! 

Bind  all  thy  classic  pathways  to  one  Theme 

Of  Soaring  Youth  and  starward  high  adventure! 

So  shall  thy  dusks,  when  wistful  feet  come  roaming; 

Mean  always — world-pain  healed,  and  spirits  homing. 


128 


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